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Horbatb College TLfbcwcp 


Obc half tke laeom« ftom tUs L«nc]r, which wm ra- 
cdT«d in iMo VBder the will of 

•f Wtltham, MuMchweCtt, !• fo be ezpea^ed for hooka 
for the College Library. The other half of the laeome 
ia deroted to aeholaiahlM la Harvard UalTeiaitf for the 



who died at Waiertowa. Maaaachoaetia, ia t6t6. Ia the 
abaeaee ef rach deeeaadaati, other pcnona are eligible 
to the icholafihipi. Tha will reqalrea that thb aaaoaae^ 
meat ehall be auide la every book added to the Libtafj 
aader tti prorlaloas. 

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Univkrsity ok Virginia 

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Compiled under 
the direct super- 
vision of southern 
men of letters 1 

Edwin Andersoaj Alder MA^ 
Joel Cha/^dler Harhi5 


Charles William Kent 





The flAKTiNgHoYT Company 




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4JL ^ol.^o 

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Copyright, 1907, by 
The Martin and Hoyt Company, Atlanta, Georgia. 

Copyright^ 1909, by 
The Martin and Hoyt Company, Atlanta, Georgia. 

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Editors In Chief. 

President University of Virginia. 

Editor Uncle Remus's Magazine, Atlanta, Georgia. 

Literary Editor. 

University of Virginia. 

Associate Literary Editor. 

University of North Carolina. 

Assistant Literary Editors. 

University of Texas. 

University of Mississippi. 

University of South Carolina. 

Executive Editor. 

Atlanta, Georgia. 

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President University of Alabama. 

President University of Missouri, 

President University of Tennessee. 

Chancellor University of Georgia, 

President Louisiana State University, 

President Tulane University, Louisiana. 

President Washington and Lee Uni- 


A.M., Ph.P., LL,D.. L.H.D., 
Johns Hopkins University, Maryland. 

Chancellor University of Mississippi. 

J. H. KIRKLAND, A.M., Ph.D., LLD., 
Chancellor Vanderhilt University, 

F. V. N. PAINTER, A.M., D.D., 
Roanoke College, Virginia, 

R. N. ROARK, M.A.. Ph.D., 
President Kentucky State Normal 

President University of Florida. 

President fVofford College, South 

President University of Arkansas. 

President University of Texas. 

President University of North Carolina 

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Ex-Governor, North Carolina. 

Congressman, Alabama, 

Ex-Governor, Florida. 

Resident Catholic Bishop of Georgia. 

Ex-U, S. Senator, 1 ennessee. 

General Commanding U.C.V,, Mississippi. 

Rahhi, Texas. 

US, Senator, Texas. 

Publicist, Missouri, 

Protestant Episcopal Bishop, Tennessee, 

Bishop M,E. Church, South, Mississippi 

Editor and Lecturer, Georgia, 

Ex-Govemor, South Carolina. 

W. W. MOORE, D.D., LUD., 
President Union Theological Seminary, 

President Southern Baptist Theological 
Seminary, Kentucky, 

Supreme Court of Louisiana. 

U.S. senator, Maryland. 

U. M. ROSE, 
Ex-President American Bar Association, 

Governor of Georgia, 

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In addition to special credit given elsewhere, 
grateful acknowledgment is made to the follow- 
itif owners and publishers for permission to re- 
prmt the selections used in this volume: 

D. Appleton Company, Bobbs-Merrill Com- 
pany, Richard G. Badger, The Century Com- 
pany, Houghton, Mifflm and Company, J. B. 
Lippincott Company, Neale Publishing Company, 
The Outlook Compamr, James Pott and Company, 
G. P. Putnam's Sons, Scribner's Magazine, 
Charles Scribner's Sons. 

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ScHELE De Verb, Maximiuan (1820-1898) - - 4687 

Mr. Jefferson's Pet 

ScHERER^ James Augustin Brown (1870— ) - 4709 

BY stanhope SAMS 
Martin Luther 
Abelard and H61oise 
Land of the Rising Sun 

Seawell^ Molly Elliott (i860— 7 - " - 47^9 

The True Story of Commandant Li^vrc 

Semmes, Raphael (1809-1877) - - - - 4751 
by raphael s. payne 

At The Siege of Vera Cruz 

On the Road to Puebla 

In Puebla 

The Kearsarge and the Alabama 

A Tribute to Maury 

Letter to Samuel Semmes 

Shepherd, Henry Eluott ( 1844 — ) - - - 4775 
by matthew page andrews 

Critical Study of 'In Memoriam" 
Genius and Literary Character of Edgar Allan Poe 
Estimate of James Ryder Randall 
A Sketch of David Harvey Hill 


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SiMMs^ William Gilmore (1806-1870) - - 4793 


Fascinated by a Rattlesnake 

Dr. Oakenburg and Lieutenant Porgy 

The Lost Pleiad 

The Grapevine Swing 

The Burden of the Desert 

The Edge of the Swamp 

Wonders of the Sea 

The Swamp Fox 

Oh, the Sweet South ! 

Cool Cool Te Weet Tu Whul 

SjOLANDER, John P. (1851 — ) - - . - 4833 


The Dream Creed 

Eileen and I 

The Silence 

The Cry of Tantalus 


Intra Muros 


The Song of Molach 

To Daphne, Dead 

Song of the Com 

Sonnets from the Farm 

The Rain Frog 

In August Woods 

The Dusk of the South 

After Care in Autumn 

Sledd, Benjamin (1864 — ) - - - - 4851 

by joseph quincy adams, jr. 


The Cocoon 

The Mother 


The Watchers of the Hearth 

The Death of Balder 

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Sledd^ Benjamin- — Continued 

The Children 

The Wraith of Roanoke 

To Sappho 

The Quest 


The South-Sea Watch 

Smedes, Susan Dabney (1840— ) - - - 4863 

Master and Slaves 

Smith, Charles Henry ("Bill Arp") (1826-1903) 4885 


Bill Arp Addresses Artemus Ward 

Mrs. Arp Goes Off on a Visit 

Difference in Folks 

"Billy in the Low Grounds'* 

Open House 

Live Stock Views 

The Voice of Spring 

Smith, pRANas Hopkinson (1838 — ) • - 4909 


The Surprise 

Night in Venice 

The One-Legged Goose 

Smith, John (1579-1631) 49^9 

by j. a. c. chandler 

The First Settlement 

Religion and Ceremony 

Happy Arrival of Maister Nelson and the Phenix 

The Rescue by Pocahontas 

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Smith^ Mary Stuart (1834— ) - - - - 4947 

by charles w. kent 




Martha, the Wife of Washington 

Smith, Wiluam Benjamin (1850 — ) - - 49^5 

by walter miller 

Political Paradoxes 
A Dip into the Future 
The Merman and the Seraph 

Smith, William Russell (1815-1896) - - 4985 

by thomas m^adory owen 


The Lost Pleiad Found 

Solitude of Mind 


Speech in Opposition to the Secession of Alabama 

The Blessings of Peace 

Foreign Allies 

The Pursuit and Capture of the Counterfeiters 

Snead, Thomas L6wndes (1828-1890) - - 5009 

by edward a. allen 

Frank Blair Rebels Against the State 
The Battle of Wilson's Creek 
The Result of the Battle 

Southern Literature .-.-.- 5025 
by charles w. kent 
A Brief Sketch 

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Spencer, Cornelia Phillips (1825-1908 - - 5049 

by w. c. smith 
Lee's Men 
After the Surrender 
Time Will Heal the Wounds 

Stanton, Frank Lebby (1857—) - - - S061 


Wearyin' for You 

The Love Feast at Waycross 

Saint Michael's Bells 

The Woodland Thrush 

One Country 

The Graveyard Rabbit 

His Grandmother's Way 

The Warship Dixie 

Li'r Feller Wid His Mammy's Eyes 

Sweetes' Li'l' Feller 

At Bay 

The Way to the Melon Patch 

The Backwoods School 

The River 

This World 

The Marseillaise of the Fields 

Stanton, Henry Throop (1834-1899) - - " 5083 

by charles w. kent 

The Moneyless Man 

The Path 

The Bivouac 

A Pipe after Tea 

The Little Boy Guiding the Plow 

The Midnight Rose 

Down the Road 

Stephens, Alexander H. (1812-1883) - - 5^97 

by louis pendleton 
The Seat of Parartount Sovereignty 


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Stockard, Henry Jerome (1858 — ) • - • 5119 
by benjamin sledd 

Come Tenderly, O Death! 

The Mocking-Bird 

"Knee-Deep, Knee-Deep I'' 

My Pipe 

The Hero 

At Fordham 

After Reading a Treasury of Sonnets 

My Library 

"Some Verses Carol" 

A Day 

In the Lighthouse at Point Lookout, North Carolina 


To My Mocking-Bird 


The American Eagle 


Strother^ David Hunter (1816-1888)' - - 5131 

by daniel b, lucas 

Virginia Hospitality 

The Falls of the Blackwater 

Stuart, Ruth McEnery (1856 — ) - - - 514S 


Sonny — A Christmas Guest 



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University of Virginia Frontispiece 

William Gilmore Simms • • • . Facing page 4793 

John Smith Facing page 4929 

Alexander H. Stephens Facing page 5097 

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THE life of Maximilian Scheie De Vere was rich in the achieve- 
ments of the teacher and literary scholar, but very meager in 
known personal details. An itude intime of the good professor will 
never be made because of his baffling reticence. Among the well- 
attested facts is the place of his nativity, Wexio, Sweden, where, on 
the first day of November, 1820, he was bom to the social station 
of a freiherr. His father was a Swede, an officer in the Prussian 
military service, and the paternal family name was von Scheie. De 
Vere was the maternal name, but beyond this, and that she was 
French, nothing is known of Dr. Scheie's mother. When the young 
scholar came to America he gave the coupled names of his parents, 
Scheie De Vere, as his own, and invariably wrote the connective 
with a capital D ; but at the University of Virginia, where he lived 
for fifty-one years, he was known as Dr. Scheie — or Mr. Scheie, 
as he seemed to prefer — ^and any one who inquired for Dr. De Vere 
was regarded as unacquainted with him. The authorial De Vere, 
whidi occurs on the covers of two or three of his early books, does 
not seem quite right to those who knew him, and was probably a book- 
binder's error. A friend once induced him to write something about 
his life, but the few resulting pages were quite free of the personal 
details so necessary to a sketch of this kind. "Here" [at W'Sxio], he 
related, "in a grim old mountain castle, my first years were spent 
but, at the age of eight, I was suddenly, with the whole family, 
transplanted to southern Germany. .... I was young enough, 
with organs of speech quite pliant yet, to learn German rapidly, and 
even to outstrip my father, to whom seeks hundert und seeks und 
seehzig remained a shibboleth for life. It so happened that the for- 
tress he commanded lay near the Polish frontier, and the great mag- 
nates of that unfortunate nation frequently came across to break 
the monotony of their semi-barbarous life by a glimpse of the fes- 
tivities and great ceremonies of the city. These visits were returned, 
and thus an opportunity was offered to acquire at least one of the 
idioms of the Slavic family. It is a common saying that to him 
who was bom a Slav, or had the rare good luck of learning to speak 
their language, no other idiom presented any difficulty. When I 

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here add that according to almost universal custom in better families 
the children were entrusted to a French bonne, or governess, and that 
French was the common language of the household, it will be seen 
how easy it was made to speak several languages, and thus to ac- 
quire riches that do *not give themselves wings and disappear.* That 
the medal has its reverse need hardly be told; thus it fell to my lot 
to have a nurse from Brittany to rule over my earlier days, and now, 
at three score and ten, the Frenchman who meets me will smilingly 
say : * You arc a Frenchman,' and at once temper the sweet savor 
of the compliment by adding 'though not a Parisian — evidently a 
Breton.' So much for the unlucky 'burr' which has stuck to me 
through life with a pertinacity that I have often thought almost 
fiendish. ... It had been a sudden but most pleasant change 
from the gruesome old castle, buried amid lonely and most melan- 
clioly pine forests, and a climate varying from six months' green 
winter to six months' white winter, to lovely Silesia, where the giant 
mountains rise gently from the vast plains, covered with golden 
wheat fields and rich vineyards. But youth is restless; we all wished 
to see what was on the other side of that gigantic barrier that shut 
us out from the 'dew-dropping South.* It was then that my father 
adopted a rule which, like so many things we do as unconscious tools 
in the hands of our great Master on high, never knowing what 
strange returns may come back to us from 'bread cast upon the 
waters,' afterwards gravely influenced my fate in life. He found out 
that I longed to see Italy, 'to walk in the forum where Caesar had bled 
and Cicero had spoken,' and to gather the golden fruit, as it grows 
in the garden of the Hesperides. Thus he summoned me — ^how I 
dreaded these interviews with the stem old soldier! — and kindly 
said: 'You wish to see Italy. I have no objection. Nothing helps 
more to form the mind than to see other nations with other creeds 
and other manners than ours, and yet our equals, if not superiors. 
You shall have what you need to spend six months beyond the Alps 
as soon as you can read me an Italian paper.' Oh, how I studied 
and worked during every leisure hour I By night and by day, week 
after week, until I could stand the required test, and the next morn- 
ing I started on the first of my many outings of the kind. I learned 
a new language and saw a new country, little thinking then that 
the knowledge acquired for mere pleasure and to satisfy my father's 
whim, as I thought it then, would before long become the means of 
earning my daily bread." 

At seventeen Scheie entere4 the University of Berlin, and re- 
mained three semesters. At Bonn he studied during two, and formed 
a close friendship with Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. After 
another semester at Berlin, that university conferred upon him the 

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degree of Doctor of Philosophy in 1841, two years before he came 
to America. The following year Greifswald made him a juris utri- 
usque doctor. It is said that he studied Roman law in the Eternal 
City; that he was first in the military and then in the diplomatic 
service of Prussia; and that he fought with the French in Algiers. 
His military and diplomatic services were crowded into about a year, 
1842- 1843, ^^c y^^^ o^ ^^s departure for America. In this time the 
French, led by General Bugeaud, were making the decisive campaign 
in Algiers against Abd-el Kader, which broke that Emir's power, 
razed his forts, and scattered his rude armies ; but young Scheie owed 
military service to Prussia, if to any government, and it is impos- 
sible to think of him in the role of Dalgetty. 

In 1843 Dr. Scheie came to America. It is not surprising that 
he went to Boston, the seat of the most prosperous American univer- 
sity. George Ticknor had been one of its professors, and was still 
living there; Longfellow was of the faculty. Both of these Ameri- 
cans knew their Europe, and cultured Europe knew them. Long- 
fellow's books were on sale in perhaps all the cities across the Atlan- 
tic, for the fidelity and elegance of his translations had won a 
large sale. His "Outre-Mer** delighted cultivated readers in Europe 
and America, and his "Voices of the Night" was heard around the 
world Undoubtedly they reached Scheie at Berlin, Bonn, or Greifs- 

After a brief year in Boston, during which he studied modem 
Greek, the chair of modern languages in the University of Virginia 
became vacant by the resignation of Dr. Charles Kraitsir. One likes 
to think that Ticknor, whom Jefferson invited to this professorship 
when it was founded, pointed Dr. Scheie to Virginia and was influ- 
ential in procuring his election, which occurred on September 25, 
1844. Every member present at the meeting of the visitors voted for 
him — Chapman Johnson, rector; John H. Cocke, Thomas Jefferson 
Randolph, William C. Rives, and Samuel Taylor. 

It was in the closing months of his twenty-fourth year that he 
reached the University, and sought the presence of the chairman of 
the faculty, the distinguished scientist, William Barton Rogers. 
While Dr. Scheie was the youngest member of the faculty, he found 
others of congenial age. Dr. Cabell and the younger of the Rogers 
brothers were seven years older. Gessner Harrison, Courtenay, and 
William Barton Rogers were in middle life, and George Tucker 
and Henry St. George Tucker were the patriarchs of the little com- 
munity of scholars. It was a delightful social circle into which he 
was admitted. At the center of the circle, locally speaking, were the 
families of the professors, living now in quiet and peace on the 
University lawn, from which the tumults and alarms of past years 

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of reckless undergraduate escapades had been banished by the steady 
growth of sentiments of respect and esteem between faculty and 
students. In the country around were the hospitable gentry of that 
day — ^the Randolphs at Edge Hill, the Nelsons at Belvoir, the Riveses 
at Castle Hill and Carlton, the Stevensons at Blenheim, to name only 
a few of those who gave distinction to the private and public life of 
Virginia. This atmosphere the young Baron from sunny Silesia 
found congenial. The gentle courtesy of the Virginians was matched 
by his own, and he contributed somewhat to the complacency of his 
circle, "We were sure," one who knew him in those days said, 
"that what Dr. Scheie did was the correct thing, and that we could 
copy his dress and be certain of being in fashion." 

After five years in this entourage. Dr. Scheie led to the altar 
Eliza Wydown Rives, the nineteen-year-old daughter of the dis- 
tinguished jurist, Alexander Rives of Carlton. Three days after 
the birth of his only child, Minna Eliza, the young mother died, and 
the child followed her to the grave in 1864, aged thirteen. Dr. 
Scheie's second wife was Lucy Brown Rives, sister of the first Mrs. 
Scheie. This marriage occurred in i860, and, like the first, at Carl- 
ton; the celebrant in both cases was the Rev. Richard K. Meade, 
rector of Christ Church, Charlottesville. 

It was a place "whose genius was work" wherein Dr. Scheie 
made his home for more than half a century. Though he expected 
and was willing to do much, he must have been appalled at the 
undertaking of his predecessor to give courses in French, Spanish, 
Italian, German, and Anglo-Saxon and their literatures, especially at 
his complacent offer, in addition, "to teach the Roman (or language 
of the Troubadours), Portuguese, and Valachian, Danish, Swedish, 
Icelandish, and Hollandish, Slavonian, Bohemian, Polish and Rus- 
sian" ! 

He was soon distinguished as a teacher and as a writer on phi- 
lology. His published language studies were in a vein which has since 
received much attention from authors whose books are possibly more 
popular in appeal and more critical in tone and attitude, but less 
surely based on sound and catholic attainments. His first work 
was more technical, a Spanish grammar and 'Outlines of Com- 
parative Philology.' These and 'Leaves from the Book of Nature' 
(1850) constituted his ante-bellum productions. 

The period of the Civil War was with him a time of literary 
activity. The professors were required to remain at the University 
and keep its classes going, although the number of students diminished 
to less than fifty. There was at first a disposition among them to 
enter the military service of the Confederacy, and two did so. For 
a time, indeed, the faculty were drilled in preparation for the field. 

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and Dr. Scheie was drillmaster. His warlike employment soon ceased, 
and the professor of modem languages, with some leisure at com- 
mand, took up the pen and gave over thoughts of the sword. Then 
and afterward he produced these works: 'Studies in English, or 
Glimpses of the Inner Life of Our Language' (1866); The Great 
Empress: A Portrait' (1869); Wonders of the Deep' (1869); 
'Americanisms, or the English of the New World' (1871) ; 'Modem 
Magic' (1872). 

For a time he was busy with translations, of which these should 
be mentioned: Spielhagen's 'Problematic Characters' (1869), and its 
sequel, 'Through Night to Light,' published the same year, and the 
same author's 'The Hohensteins.' Among renderings from the 
French were Saintine's 'Myths of the Rhine' and some of Gaboriau's 
novels. He also contributed to the Southern Literary Messenger, 
Putnam's, Harper^s, and probably other magazines, and delivered 
some very graceful addresses, one of the most interesting being 
his remarks at the laying of the corner-stone of the chapel at the 
University of Virginia. To the end of his life he used his pen 
diligently, producing an advanced French grammar and a work on 
the French verb, and doing important editorial work on the 'Standard 
Dictionary.' In all that he wrote one finds knowledge, sureness of 
statement weighed and guarded against error, literary mastery, re- 
spect for things worth while and reverence for things sacred. 

In 1894 Dr. Scheie completed fifty years of continuous service 
in the University. The record was no more remarkable for the 
long unbroken stretch of years than for the industry, ability, and 
charm with which he urged upon the students who filled his lecture- 
room the keys to the treasures of modern literatures. It is justly 
said of him that, at a time when older and wealthier colleges in 
America had not recognized the value of the comparative method, 
he gave to modem philology a new dignity and offered a course 
which was followed by hundreds with enthusiasm. His colleagues 
and former students made the fiftieth anniversary of his appointment 
memorable by presenting to him a large punch-bowl of solid silver 
"in recognition of the lasting value of his half century of distin- 
guished service and in testimony of their enduring regard/' Distin- 
guished men wrote to praise him. "His services to the science of 
language have been great," said a profound scholar; "his personal 
influence on students has been greater." 

A year later, having in a fine way devoted the best years of his 
life to the State, Dr. Scheie retired from the faculty of the Uni- 
versity. He resided in Washington the remainder of his life, which 
closed at the Providence Hospital, May 10, 1898. He was buried 
from Christ Church, Navy Yard, in Rock Creek Cemetery, the pall- 

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bearers being Holmes Conrad, Leigh Robinson, Charles L. Bartlett, 
Oscar W. Underwood, John Sharp Williams, William A. Jones, 
William B. Matthews, and E. L Renick, all of whom had been his 
students. Two months later the body of his wife was laid beside him. 

c^fei^ ^ /X 



It was a bright, sunny day, such as the Indian summer is 
apt to bring to our favored land, when, in the little town of 
Charlottesville, a solemn meeting was held by its most influen- 
tial citizens. They had assembled to consult about the expedi- 
ency of reviving a modest country school, known under the 
somewhat ambitious name of the Albemarle Academy, which 
had originally been endowed out of the spoils of the old church 
establishment, but was no longer able to support itself. The 
worthy men who had taken the matter in charge, partly with 
a view to the needs of that portion of the State, which was 
growing rapidly in wealth and intelligence, and stood sadly in 
want of a good school, partly with an eye to their own interests, 
were much at a loss how to organize a satisfactory scheme. 
They were on the point of abandoning the plan, when one of 
them descried afar off the tall form of a horseman rapidly 
coming down the public road that led from an eminence called 
Carter's Mountain in the village. He was superbly mounted 
on a thorough-bred horse, and managed it with the perfect ease 
of a consummate rider who has been familiar with horseback 
exercise from childhood up. As he came nearer, the stately 
proportions of his frame became more and more distinct, and 
even the fire of his clear blue eye could be discerned under 
his broad-brim hat. He was clad from head to foot in dark 
gray broadcloth of homely cut, while his noble open counte- 
nance was rising with a firm and self-poised expression from 
an immense white cravat in which his neck was swathed. Fast 
as he came, it was evident that nothing escaped his attention: 

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here he noticed an open panel in a farmer's fence, and there 
the leaking gutter of a townsman's house ; he cast a searching 
glance at every horse or ox he met, and courteously returned 
the greeting of young and old. As he was recognized by the 
anxious men in council, they rose instinctively from their seats 
on the court-house green, and an expression of welcome relief 
rose to every face. When one of them said, "Let us consult 
Mr. Jefferson," he received no reply ; he had only uttered what 
was in every man's heart at the same moment. 

So they invited their illustrious neighbor who had but a 
short while before exchanged the White House, with all its 
high honors and severe labors, for the ease and comfort of his 
own Monticello, to join their council and to aid them by his 
advice. He dismounted with the alacrity of youth, carefully 
fastened the reins of his horse to the railing, as he had tied 
them to the palisades of the President's house in Washington, 
after riding down horse-back to his inauguration; and un- 
screwing the top of his cane, he opened its three parts, which 
formed the legs of the stool, and seated himself on the in- 
genious contrivance, one of the many results of his own in- 
ventive skill. Then courteously acknowledging the honor done 
him by his friends and neighbors, the ex-President listened 
attentively to their argument, now and then throwing in a 
judicious question so as to elicit the most important facts, then 
gave his opinion. Great was the astonishment of the good 
men of the village when he rejected their modest plans, and 
spoke of them with a harshness little in keeping with his usual 
urbanity. But greater still was their surprise when he con- 
tinued, and now urged them to convert their paltry academy 
at once into a college, and to do something that might redound 
to the credit not only of their good county of Albemarle, but 
of the State of Virginia. This was so far beyond the range of 
their vision, and the plan seemed to them so much above the 
means of the youthful commonwealth — especially with old 
William and Mary College rising before their mind's eye in 
all its prestige of ancient fame and ample means — ^that they 
could not at once enter heartily into his views. Still, Mr. 
Jefferson's words were law to his neighbors then, and when he 
suggested a way in which an endowment might be obtained, 
by subscriptions in the adjoining counties as well as in their 

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own, and indorsed his view by pledging himself at once to a 
considerable siun, they hesitated no longer, and, in their official 
capacity as trustees, on the spot drew up the necessary reso- 

It was no new thing, however, with Mr, Jefferson, this 
idea of a great college for his native State. As far back as the 
year 1779, when he was called upon by the General Assembly 
of Virginia to prepare a code of laws, he had incorporated in 
it, with the reluctant consent of his eminent co-laborers, not 
only a provision for a university, but, what is far more re- 
markable and interesting, by the light of modem progress, a 
complete scheme of free common schools. His almost mar- 
velous sagacity and foresight induced him to declare then — 
nearly a hundred years ago— that free schools were an essen- 
tial part, one of the columns as he expressed it, of the repub- 
lican edifice, and that without such instruction, free to all, the 
sacred flame of liberty could not be kept burning in the hearts 
of America. And what appears perhaps equally striking is 
that in his plan for his university, minutely elaborated so far 
back in the past century, he already introduced ample and wise 
provision for schools of applied science, such as are but now 
beginning to form an essential part of our best institutions. 
Like all great men, however, Mr. Jefferson was far in ad- 
vance of his age, and we need not wonder, therefore, that his 
State followed him but slowly and at a great distance in his 
far-seeing plans. It was not till 1796 that his proposal was 
acted upon by the Legislature, though to their honor be it said, 
a law was then passed providing for a general system of free 
schools. The enactment, unfortunately, shared the fate of so 
many Virginia resolutions — it remained an empty promise on 
the statute-book, and was not carried into effect till in our 
own day. 

Now, however, when relieved of his grave and oppressive 
duties as head of a great nation, he reverted with increased 
ardor to his first love, and with an energy and affection very 
touching in a man so eminent among the great of the world, 
and so overwhelmed with work and admiration alike, he de- 
voted himself heart and soul to his favorite idea, the building 
up of a great university. After subscribing a thousand dollars 
for the new school, an example which was at once followed 

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by eight of his more opulent neighbors, he obtained a charter 
for the new "Central College," refusing with wonted modesty 
the use of his own name for the institution, and forthwith pro- 
ceeded to select the site and erect the buildings. 

Fortunately there was no lack of beautiful sites in the 
immediate neighborhood of his beloved home. From his lofty 
dwelling he looked down upon scenes favored as few are in 
this land abounding with fair landscapes and majestic sites. 
Overlooking from the terrace before his front-door the pic- 
turesque breach in the mountains through which the Rivanna 
makes its way from the higher table-lands of the Old Dominion 
to the lower districts on the sea coast, he beheld toward the 
west a country rich in all that makes God's earth lovely and 
dear to our hearts. Dotted here and there with ample woods, 
now rising dark and solemn in masses of evergreen, and now 
glorious in a rich exuberance of colors, the pride of the tulip, 
the gum, and the maple, with an undergrowth of rosy redbud 
and virgin dogwood blossoms, the land rises in rolling waves 
till it reaches here gently swelling hills and there abrupt tow- 
ering masses, called in the homely language of the people the 
Ragged Mountains. And thus range follows range, unfolding 
in unbroken succession new beauties and varied views, till the 
enchanted eye, gently led upward from terrace to terrace, rests 
with ineffable delight upon the marvelous blue and the soft 
outlines, of the long, lofty mountain range which stretches 
along the horizon from south to north, worthy of its well- 
known name, the Blue Ridge. The silvery band of the Ri- 
vanna binds for miles and miles the lower scenes to the moun- 
tains above, while thriving villages and cozy homesteads, each, 
after Virginia fashion, snugly sheltered under a noble group of 
oaks and locusts, suggest pleasing thoughts of happy hearts 
and well-rewarded labor. Far as the eye could see, all was 
peace and prosperity, and no visitor ever came from foreign 
shores who did not, upon beholding this beautiful scene, lift 
up his heart to the great Creator, and bless the happy people 
whose lines had fallen in such truly pleasant places. 

There was no difficulty, therefore, in finding for Mr. Jef- 
ferson's pet a suitable and attractive site ; the only trouble was 
to choose between so many that all seemed equally eligible. He 
selected a hill of commanding elevation, a little more than a 

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mile to the north of the village, which seemed to combine in 
an unusual degree all the requisites for a desirable site. Tra- 
dition, however, says that the owner of the land, a political 
opponent of the ex-President's, held his principles in such utter 
detestation that he would on no account have anything to do 
with him, and preferred the loss of a certain and considerable 
increase of wealth to the abandonment of his personal feel- 
ings. It became thus necessary to choose a less commanding 
eminence, which was speedily levelled down so as to present 
a vast plateau of nearly two thousand feet in length with a 
proportionate width, and, opening toward the south, com- 
manded in that direction a vast prospect full of picturesque 

Who can tell what feelings of gratification and just pride 
must have swelled the heart of the great man when at last he 
saw the first buildings rise on the ground on which he hoped 
to see a great and prosperous university gather within its 
walls a thousand of the young men of the land? He had 
cherished this hope amidst the throes of the Revolution, and 
in the very first years of the independence of his native coun- 
try. When our people were still learning the first rudiments 
of political wisdom he had already foreseen the wants they 
would feel in full manhood; and while his neighbors and the 
whole South were still content with old corn-field schools and 
ill-taught academies, he bore in his mind the full-grown 
scheme of a university that should rival Harvard and success- 
fully imitate the great institutions of the Old World. For 
nearly two-score years he had persistently pursued the great 
object, and, against all odds, obtained at least sufficient suc- 
cess to fill him with new hope and encourage him to new effort. 
Utterly unselfish in his great scheme, he never thought for a 
moment of his own interests or his fame ; but with a single- 
ness of purpose blended in rare harmony with marvelous saga- 
cious intuition, he merely desired to prepare his countrymen 
for the novel and important functions to which they were 
summoned by their new-born independence. Fortunately he 
had noble coadjutors in his labors. Presidents Madison and 
Monroe, his successors, lent him all the wisdom and worldly 
experience that had rendered them famous in the councils of 
the nation and at the rudder of the ship of state ; and inferior 

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only in worldly renown, but fully their equal in lofty virtues 
and eminent ability, Joseph Carrington Cabell stood by his 
side, fighting his battles in the Legislature, and winning many 
a victory over public and private enemies which his illustrious 
friend could not easily have obtained. In 1 817 the three Presi- 
dents met in solemn council at Monticello to discuss the details 
of a university — for such Mr. Jefferson had in the meantime 
decided the "Central College" should become, not in name 
only, but in all essential features ; and from that day the uni- 
versity became the subject of his most earnest efforts during 
advanced manhood, as it was the last care of his declining 

The familiar saying that God gives the opportunity, and 
man has to improve it, had in the meantime found a most 
striking illustration in his native State. By the agency of a 
gentleman unknown to Mr. Jefferson a literary fund had been 
created by act of Legislature. It consisted of the proceeds 
from certain escheats, forfeitures, fines, property derelict, and 
similar sources of smaller value, and was intended to provide 
for the educational wants of the State. At a later period it 
was largely increased by considerable sums of money paid by 
the Government of the United States to Virginia for services 
rendered and sacrifices made during the War of Independence. 
This fund perhaps first suggested to Mr. Jefferson the possi- 
bility of carrying out his pet scheme; and in the sequel he 
knew how to employ his almost intuitive knowledge of the 
springs of human action, and his great skill in putting them 
into operation, so well as to obtain from the Legislature a 
lion's share for his favorite child. In the following year, 
acting in accordance with an act passed in early spring, and 
authorizing the use of $45,000 annually for the primary educa- 
tion of the poor, and $15,000 to endow and support a univer- 
sity, commissioners met at Rockfish Gap to digest and prepare 
the necessary measures. 

It is one of the peculiarities of this country, due to its ex- 
ceptional mode of development, that the great cities. New 
York, perhaps, excepted, are but rarely the scenes of impor- 
tant assemblies ; for as the centres of population and wealth are 
shunned by legislative bodies, who prefer to meet in smaller 
towns, free from undue and yet unavoidable influences, so 

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very often, also, the greatest movements have not only origin- 
ated but reached their consummation in obscure places, un- 
known to the world and often to the country itself. Such was 
the case in this instance. High up in the Blue Ridge, at an 
elevation from which the eye takes in at a single glance a va- 
riety of scenes unequalled on this continent for beauty and 
loveliness, a little river rises in a dark gorge, to fall gently 
from terrace to terrace, and after a brief and rapid course, 
abounding with falls and cascades of infinite attractiveness, 
to pour its waters into James River. As the mountains here 
sink to a low level, and thus afford one of the passes through 
which in older days immigrants passed from what is called 
the Piedmont region of the State to the great Valley of Vir- 
ginia, the place has received the idiomatic name of Rockfish 
Gap. Here, at a modest country inn, unpretending in appear- 
ance, but offering an abundant and well-served table, far from 
the turmoil of cities and the excitement of politics, met a party 
of men remarkable for their ability and virtue amidst a peo- 
ple which had already given four Presidents to the Union, and 
was well known to possess as much private as public worth. 
In the low-ceiled, whitewashed room, the whole furniture of 
which consisted of a dining-room table and rude "split-bottom" 
chairs of home make, sat the President of the United States, 
Mr. Monroe, and two of his predecessors, Mr. Madison and 
Mr. Jefferson, besides a number of judges and eminent states- 
men. "Yet," says one of Mr. Jefferson's biographers, "it was 
remarked by the lookers-on that Mr. Jefferson was the princi- 
pal object of regard both to the members and spectators, that 
he seemed to be the chief mover of the body — ^the soul that 
animated it — and some who were present, struck by these 
manifestations of deference, conceived a more exalted idea of 
him on this simple and unpretending occasion than they had 
ever previously entertained." He certainly gave a striking 
proof here of his marvelous sagacity combined with unweary- 
ing industry. He had shrewdly foreseen that competing inter- 
ests would conflict with his own wishes, and especially with the 
selection of a site for the new university. His sagacity was not 
at fault, for various other towns, and among them Lexington, 
where an institution, endowed by Washington himself, was 
already doing much good, urged their claims through able rep- 

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resentatives. But he was fully prepared to meet them, and 
came armed cap-a-pie. He first exhibited to the board an im- 
posing list of octogenarians who were still living in his neigh- 
borhood, and thus proved more conclusively than all reasoning 
could have done the remarkable salubrity of the climate of 
Albemarle. Having thus completely defeated his adversaries, 
who founded their special claims for the valley upon its su- 
perior health fulness, he next produced a piece of card-board, 
cut in the shape of the State of Virginia, and showed by a 
glance that Central College was actually the territorial centre 
of the commonwealth, thus establishing a strong argument in 
favor of his own choice. But he did not rest there; by an- 
other ingenious device he proved, on a similar piece of board, 
on which he had, with painstaking industry, entered the popu- 
lation of every part of Virginia, that he had succeeded in 
selecting nearly the centre of the population also, and thanks 
to these practical proofs of the wisdom of his choice, and the 
almost paramount prestige which his name exercised on the 
commissioners, they agreed unanimously that Central College 
should hereafter be the "University of Virginia." 

In the following year, 1819, the General Assembly granted 
a charter for the new institution, and no more striking proof 
can be given of the earnestness with which the great founder 
pursued the darling device of his later years than the fact that 
he transcribed with his own hand, and in his well-known, beau- 
tiful writing, the minutes of the board down to the smallest 
detail. He who had for so many years, and in the most troub- 
lous times, ruled the affairs of a great nation, after having 
filled the highest offices in the gift of the people abroad and at 
home — ^he whose house never ceased to overflow with admiring 
visitors from every part of the globe, and who yet ever enter- 
tained the humblest of his fellow-citizens with the same scrup- 
ulous courtesy and urbanity which he showed to foreign princes 
and renowned generals — he whose correspondence occupied 
him, as he tells us, from sunrise to one or two o'clock, and 
often all night long — this man, so rich in honors, so vast in 
his thoughts, performed the very humblest labor, and conde- 
scended to the minutest details, when his pet, the University, 
seemed to require his attention. He recorded with his own 
hands the minutes of the Board of Visitors, and twice, at 

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least, copied their annual reports to the General Assembly. 
These interesting proofs of his industry and the deep interest 
he took in the child of his old age, are still preserved in the 
archives of the University, and recall forcibly the words of 
the wise king: ''Seest thou a man diligent in his business, he 
shall stand before kings I" Even in the purely formal interests 
of routine business in the visitors' record there are every now 
and then most touching indications of the joy of heart with 
which he witnessed the gradual fulfilment of his hopes; and 
in his letters, especially in some of the most interesting lately 
rescued and published by his gifted grand-daughter, Miss 
Sarah S. Randolph, this sentiment of intense and yet unselfish 
satisfaction shines forth conspicuously. 

The buildings originally intended for the Central College, 
but now considerably enlarged, so as to fit them for a univer- 
sity, soon began to engross his whole attention. Every hour he 
could spare from his almost overwhelming correspondence, 
from his boundless hospitality, and the rare intervals he devo- 
ted to quiet enjoyment in the bosom of his family, was hence- 
forth given to the superintendence of his great work. He soon 
found that all his energy and activity were barely able to ac- 
complish the task, while during the same time his superior 
judgment and matchless address in overcoming obstacles of 
every kind were urgently needed to provide the pecuniary 
means for securing its completion. On him devolved the duty 
not only of furnishing the architectural plans and elevation, 
but also of procuring workmen, at a time when skilled labor 
was still rare in otu* cities, and almost tuiknown at any dis- 
tance from the sea-board. With indefatigable diligence and 
perseverance he engaged the best bricklayers and carpenters 
that could be obtained, and with his own hands showed them 
how to measure and how to work. He prepared draughts of 
every subordinate detail and then watched over their faithful 
execution with unremitting care. Fortunately he had, among 
other tastes, cultivated also a special taste for architecture ; and 
his portfolios were filled with drawings from Palladio and 
other great masters, as well as with copies of all the most fa- 
mous structures of antiquity. He now found an opportunity 
to carry out the long-cherished schemes of his patriotism in 
providing for the education of the youth of his country, and 

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at the same time to gratify his great fondness for building. 
Each of the professors' houses, which he preferred calling 
pavilions, was thus adorned with a Grecian portico, in which 
he exhibited to his admiring countrymen models of all orders, 
and for ever brought before the eyes of the students the finest 
specimens of classic architecture. Skilled sculptors and able 
carvers were by him imported from Italy for the special pur- 
pose of copying in costly marble the best models, and he him- 
self watched over their faithful execution to the smallest de- 
tail. . . . 

It was his ambition that the University of his native State 
should give a course of education equal to any other in the Uni- 
ted States, for he never thought of building the institution up 
into a monument of his own greatness. His aim was as pure 
as it was lofty. He loved literature and science for their own 
sakes, and wanted to see them cultivated in his native land ; but 
he also valued education, and especially the highest grade of it, 
as an essential condition of republican institutions. No doc- 
trine is more frequently repeated in those of his letters which 
refer to the University than this — ^that a wide diffusion of 
knowledge among the people is essential to a wise administra- 
tion of a popular government, and perhaps even to its stability. 
Before deciding this grave question of the future faculty, he 
took pains to inform himself thoroughly on the subject, study- 
ing the history of German universities as well as of Oxford and 
Cambridge, and inducing his old friend and frequent visitor, 
Mr. Dupont de Nemours — ^high authority on such subjects — 
to write an essay on the best scheme of colleges in the United 

When he proceeded, with all this light before him, to 
look around for able professors, he soon found that the most 
capable men in this country were already engaged, as such 
talents and ability as he required were then by no means re- 
dundant. To entice them from other institutions would have 
been invidious^ and so unwarrantable as to expose him to se- 
vere censure; to take inferior men would have disappointed 
public expectation, and was contrary to all his hopes and aspira- 
tions. He had to turn to Europe, therefore, and fortunately 
was able, through a well chosen agent, in 1824, to engage a 
number of well-qualified professors, among whom there was 

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not an obscure man, nor one whose private character and gen- 
eral religious principles were not such as to bear the closest 
scrutiny. The names of Charles Bonnycastle, well known in 
science, and of Robley Dunglison, preeminent in the annals of 
medicine, have a good sound wherever they are heard, while 
Thomas Hewitt Key and George Long earned no small fame 
in Virginia, and even more, subsequently, in England, to which 
they returned, and where the latter still stands foremost, en- 
joying the highest reputation for ripe scholarship and rare 
critical powers. John P. Emmet, a nephew of the great Em- 
met, was chosen for the chair of chemistry, and an accom- 
plished German for that of modern languages — for long years 
the only chair of its kind in any American college of high 
standing. Only the two professorships of law and moral phil- 
osophy Mr. Jefferson, with his usual tact and intuitive justness 
of perception, determined to bestow, at all hazards, upon na- 
tives, as the subjects here to be taught ought to be national in 
the highest sense of the word. He even suggested that the text- 
books to be used by the professor of law should be prescribed, 
so that "orthodox political principles" might be taught, and "the 
vestal flame of republicanism" be kept alive. The Hon. George 
Tucker, a native of Bennuda, but long a resident and at that 
time a representative in Congress from Virginia, was chosen 
for the chair of moral philosophy, and soon justified Mr. Jef- 
ferson's choice by his success as a teacher and the fame he 
acquired by his literary works. Another Virginian, John Tay- 
loe Lomax, was subsequently appointed professor of law. 

But even here all the prestige of Mr. Jefferson's great name 
and the hearty support he received from his friends did not 
shield him against bitter attacks and fierce opposition, which 
at times threatened seriously to interrupt his noble undertaking. 
It must be admitted that occasionally there seemed to be good 
ground for objection and whenever this was the case the wise 
statesman did what wisdom suggests as the best remedy, but 
what so few of our great men even know how to do at the right 
time and in the right way — ^he yielded. Such was the violent 
opposition made to the election of Dr. Cooper, in 1820, by the 
Board of Visitors, at Mr. Jefferson's suggestion, to a chair in 
the State University. Dr. Cooper, well-known to history as 
Dr. Priestley's friend and a victim of the Sedition Law, was 

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reputed to be a Unitarian — an unpardonable sin, at that time, 
in the eyes of the clergy of Virginia. There was already a 
strong religious excitement existing in the State with regard 
to the university. The leading sects had hoped that, after the 
example of the great institutions of the North, the new univer- 
sity also would fall under the control of one of their number, 
and thus they watched each other with anxious jealousy. But 
they were all united in the still greater apprehension — un- 
founded as it was — that the illustrious founder would give it 
a decided irreligious tendency. In vain did his friends repre- 
sent that, so far from any such wish, Mr. Jefferson had, on the 
contrary, made special and ample provision for the establish- 
ment of separate schools of theology in the immediate vicinity 
of the university, holding out large pecuniary advantages and 
valuable privileges to all divinity students. The clergy saw in 
Dr. Cooper's appointment a danger threatening the souls of 
the youth of the land; they raised what Mr. Jefferson called a 
"hue and cry" against him, and soon were reinforced by a pow- 
erful party in the State Legislature. They succeeded in an- 
noying and provoking their victim seriously ; he criticised their 
action in severe terms, and even allowed himself to be carried 
away so far as to accuse, in his correspondence, the Presby- 
terians of a desire to restore a "Holy Inquisition." But soon 
his good sense triumphed over the feeling of vexation, and, 
yielding to the force of public opinion, and his own views of 
expediency, he caused the appointment to be canceled on terms 
equally satisfactory to all parties. 

How deeply he felt these mortifications, however, may be 
judged from a letter he wrote afterward to his friend, Mr. 
Cabell, in which he says: "It is from posterity we are to expect 
remuneration for the sacrifices which we are making for their 
service of time, quiet, and good-will, and I fear not the appeal. 
The multitude of fine young men whom we shall redeem from 
ignorance, and -who will feel that they owe to us the elevation 
of mind, of character, and station they will be able to obtain 
from the results of our efforts, will insure their remembering 
us with gratitude : we will not, then, be 'weary in well-doing.' " 
an * * * * * 

Mr. Jefferson's interest in the success of the university 
seemed but to increase now that it was fairly launched on its 

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career. It looked as if he had regained all the activity and as- 
siduity of his youth, and presented an almost unique example 
of energy after four-score years. He ordered all things, and 
watched with his own eyes that everything was done well. In 
former years he had stood, hour after hour, on the little terrace 
before his dining-room window, watching through a telescope 
the workmen as they were busily raising story upon story. But 
now he was no longer content with such distant observation. 
Almost daily he would ride from his home on the mountain, 
crossing a dangerous stream and passing over execrable roads, 
to spend several hours at the university, observing everything, 
correcting errors and suggesting improvements, and then re- 
turn in the same way, making ten miles on horseback, and 
working incessantly with body and mind alike. He was spe- 
cially interested now in framing a code of laws for the govern- 
ment of the young men, and tried, unsuccessfully, as it proved, 
to ingraft upon this code some of his own peculiar political doc- 
trines. Thus he rejected at once all idea of punishment. No 
slavish fear, he said, no dread of disgrace, ought ever to be the 
motive of a young man's actions. He proposed to govern them 
solely by appeals to their patriotism and honor, and framed his 
laws accordingly. The students themselves were to form a 
part of their government, and to establish a court for the trial 
of mindr offenses and the infliction of punishment on delin- 
quent fellow-students. Unfortunately the youth of the land 
were not yet prepared to be governed by appeals to "their rea- 
son, their hopes, and their generous feelings," as the illustrious 
founder had hoped in his ardent admiration of ideal republican- 
ism. Offenses were committed, and, being allowed to pass un- 
punished, led to graver disorders, till, passing from step to step 
they reached a point of excess which could no longer be toler- 
ated. When at length the professors interfered, forbearance 
having become impossible, the students fancied their rights 
were violated, and declared open resistance. 

On the very night on which the Board of Visitors had as- 
sembled at Monticello to prepare business for their annual 
meeting at the university, these disorders culminated in open 
rebelHon. Mr. Jefferson's mortification was intense. He felt 
that public confidence would be shaken, and the growth of the 
institution would be checked ; but he was specially grieved by 

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this evidence of the erroneousness of his favorite idea of self- 
government. With sorrow in his heart, and grief mingled 
with indignation in his features, he accompanied his distin- 
guished guests the next morning to the university, summoned 
the students to their presence, and then addressed them in for- 
cible terms, representing to them the heinousness of their of- 
fense, and appealing in touching, tender terms to their better 
feelings and their sense of honor. Mr. Madison and others 
followed his example, and so impressive were the words of 
these venerable men that the ringleaders came forward, one 
by one, confessing their guilt. Mr. Jefferson witnessed the af- 
fecting scene with silent sorrow; but when a near kinsman of 
his appeared, and thus proved to him that the efforts of the 
last ten years of his life had been foiled, and all his bright 
hopes of what he would do for his native land had been de- 
stroyed by one of his own blood, his self-control gave way, 
and he indulged for once, in words of burning indignation and 
violent reproach. The principal rioters were expelled, and 
among them his guilty kinsman, and others more lightly pun- 
ished; but from that day a stricter code of laws was intro- 
duced. Even now, however, the government of the university 
was strictly based upon the moral sense of the students, and 
every effort made to cultivate truth and uprightness among 
them. To this day this is the leading principle — no marks of 
merit or demerit are given, no fines imposed, no threats held 
over the young men. Their word is taken without question, 
and a falsehood punished so instantly and so severely by their 
own condemnation that no attempt to obtain honors or avoid 
punishment by prevarication has been made for nearly a gen- 
eration! Another principle inculcated by Mr. Jefferson has 
largely contributed to this happy result — that the government 
of a great institution depends largely on the friendly social re- 
lations between students and professors. Hence he placed the 
former, in their dormitories, close to the door of their teachers, 
counting upon the happy effects of daily intercourse and fore-^ 
seeing that the mutual kindly sympathy thus created could not 
fail to become an important aid in educating the moral facul- 
ties as well as in cultivating the understanding. This custom 
also has ever since been kept up: the professors are at all times 
accessible to the students, and perfect confidence and mutual 

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sympathy bind them to each other. What he thus wished 
others to do, Mr. Jefferson took good care to practice himself 
with scrupulous exactness. The professors were regularly in- 
vited two or three times a week to dine with him at Monti- 
cello, and the memory of those who longest survived their il- 
lustrious friend returned during their lifetime with unmixed 
delight to those meetings, when he interested them for hours 
by pouring forth the rich treasures of his mind, and cheered 
them by his kindly sympathy with all their joys and their sor- 
rows. The students, also, were frequently invited, and four 
or five every Sunday. He received them with great kindness, 
entertained them with rare tact, and never failed to impress 
them deeply with the elevation of his character and the tender 
kindness of his heart. On these occasions he generally ate by 
himself in a small recess connected with the dining-room ; for, 
being at that period of his life somewhat deaf, he could not 
hear well amidst the clatter of knives and the chat of a merry 
company, and yet, with unselfish regard for the comfort of 
others, did not wish to impose any restraint upon their enjoy- 

The attention he had heretofore so minutely bestowed upon 
the erection of buildings, and the laying out of grounds was 
now given, with a far deeper interest, to the studies to be pur- 
sued in his beloved university; for he was, of all men, per- 
haps, best qualified to judge of what was best for the lofty 
aim he had in view. His own acquirements surprised even the 
accomplished foreigner and the far-famed savant by their ex- 
tensiveness, and if his knowledge was not always equally ac- 
curate, he was too wise a man ever to fancy himself infallible, 
and willing to learn not from the scholar only, but with equal 
readiness and humility from the simple mechanic. It may 
safely be said that there was no branch of human knowledge 
in which he was not more or less proficient. His favorite 
readings in the last months of his life were — next to the Bible, 
for which he ever expressed the most profound admiration 
and reverence — ^the great writers of ancient Greece, whose ma- 
jestic grandeur and ripe art he appreciated with rare enjoy- 
ment. And yet he would turn with true zest from the lofty 
flights in which he had accompanied their genius to the work- 
bench and turning-lathe which he kept near his bedroom, or 

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saunter into the garden and watch with intense delight the 
blooming forth of a bulb or the growth of a tree he had planted 
with his own hands. No wonder, then, that in his scheme of 
studies for the university he went far in advance of his con- 
temporaries, anl provided for wants which the majority of col- 
leges have but recently thought proper to satisfy. Mention 
has already been made of the ample provision he made for 
schools of applied science, such as are now the boast of the 
leading colleges of the land, and of the important position he 
assigned, from the beginning, to the study of modern lan- 
guages, by the side of Latin and Greek and Hebrew. But he 
went even farther ; the first man in this country, he wisely dis- 
cerned the eminent usefulness of Anglo-Saxon, mainly as a 
help to the proper understanding of our mother tongue, and 
while he wrote — more than fifty years ago — to the Hon. J. E. 
Denison strongly recommending the taste for "the recovery of 
the Anglo-Saxon dialect," which he had noticed in English 
writings, and the actual publication of existing "country dia- 
lects of English, which would restore to our language all its 
shades of variation," he labored like a diligent pupil in the 
cause he so warmly urged upon others. His manuscript work 
on the "Anglo-Saxon tongue," since published for gratuitous 
distribution by the university, is a most touching instance of 
his indefatigable assiduity, and at the same time a striking 
evidence of his vast knowledge and sagacious appreciation of 
precious lore. In accordance with these views he prescribed a 
a course of lectures to be delivered on Anglo-Saxon — the first 
chair of its kind that was devised abroad or at home. 

Thus he was closely and personally engaged, from morn 
till night, from season to season, in getting the great institu- 
tion into operation, delighted to see at last his patriotic schemes 
approaching a happy realization. In the early part of 1826, 
and throughout its beautiful spring, he was still watching 
keenly, and even minutely, over all its concerns, with unclouded 
vigor of intellect, but, alas! no longer with the energy and 
elasticity of former years. His wrists were swollen and crip- 
pled by an accident, he moved with difficulty, and finally, a 
serious chronic affection consumed slowly but irresistibly the 
scanty remnant of his former strength. His utter unselfish- 
ness, never more touching than in the last days of his life, led 

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him to conceal the ravages of this disease, and to decline all 
help from others. He still joined the family circle and enter- 
tained visitors; above all, he still manifested the most lively 
interest in the welfare of the university ; and only a few weeks 
before his death he once more rode the ten miles, going and 
coming, to see his darling pet. 

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11870— ) 


twofold place in the history of Southern literature. He has done 
distinguished and enduring work both as an educator and as a man 
of letters, and in both fields his labors have been always helpful to 
the cause of literature and enlightenment in the South. 

Dr. Scherer was bom in Salisbury, North Carolina, May 22, 
1870, coming of sterling Lutheran stock. His father, grandfather, 
several uncles, and three brothers were Lutheran ministers. The 
father came from Germany in 1748. He was the Rev. Simeon Scher- 
er, and his wife was Harriet Isabella Brown. Although his 
father's death, when he was young, left James to his own re- 
sources, he was determined to get a thorough education. For a 
considerable time he worked as clerk in a store; finally acquiring 
enough means to begin his academic training in the preparatory 
department of Pennsylvania College, at Gettysburg. The climate, 
however, proved too severe, and he went to Roanoke College in 
Virginia, from which he was graduated with the degree of A.B. in 
1890. At college his taste and capacity for both literature and ora- 
tory were decidedly marked. As he had already decided upon fol- 
lowing the ministry, he took up missionary work at Pulaski, Vir- 
ginia. A year and a half later he was ordained to the ministry by 
the South Carolina synod, and a year later, 1892, he was sent as a 
pioneer missionary to Japan. 

His labors in Japan are worthy of special mention. He acquired 
the difficult language so thoroughly as to be able to teach and preach 
in it and to translate into colloquial Japanese the Small Catechism of 
Luther. His abilities and his sympathy with the people so enlisted 
the interest of the Emperor that Dr. Scherer was several times em- 
ployed by the Government upon important tasks. But here again 
his health proved unequal to the climate, and he was forced in 1896 
to return to America. While in Japan he married Bessie Brown, 
daughter of the Rev. Paris Brown of Ohio, herself a trained and 
successful missionary. 

He was promptly called to the pastorate at Cameron, South Caro- 
lina, and later to that of St. Andrew's Church, Charleston. In 1904 

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he was chosen by the Lutheran synod as president of Newberry 
College, and at once began the work of building up that institution. 
So successful was he in this task that in a few years Newberry 
College took its place in the first rank of the denominational col- 
leges of the South. By 1908 he had, probably, developed the col- 
lege to its utmost limits, at least for the time; and he was, fortu- 
nately, at once summoned to a far wider field He was elected 
president of Throop Institute, a richly endowed technical university, 
at Pasadena, California, which is projected along somewhat novel 
lines and planned for an extensive and expansive career in education 
of mind and body. 

As a writer. Dr. Scherer's present fame rests chiefly upon his 
books on Japan, although he himself sets most store by a volume 
entitled 'Four Princes,' being "a story of the Christian Church 
centred in four types" — Paul, Constantine, Bernard, and Luther. 
Another volume. The Holy Grail,' a collection of essays and ad- 
dresses on more literary lines, won for him a very wide audience and 
reputation. But in his books on Nippon — 'Young Japan,' 'J^^pan To- 
day,' and 'What Is Japanese Morality?* — he spoke with authority 
and charm upon a subject in which the American public was intensely 
interested. They were by far the most interesting and the most 
authoritative books in their particular field, and they achieved at 
once a large circulation and more thoroughly established the repu- 
tation of their author. 

Dr. Scherer is still (1909) in the prime of his life, and has just 
begun labors in another field of literature and education. It is to 
be expected, therefore, that he may do still more excellent and en- 
during work in both careers. In literature he now has well under 
way a story of "Cotton,'* treated somewhat after the manner of Mae- 
terlinck's "La Vie des Abeilles'* (The Bee). He purposes to deal 
with the vast influences of cotton as a theme worthy of the highest 
and sincerest literary treatment. 

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From 'Four Princes.' Copyright, J. B. Lippincott Compsny, and used here by 
permission of the publishers. 

Three distinct attributes are essential to the successful 
career of a great religious reformer — a dual nature, a single 
purpose, and boundless courage. However otherwise great a 
reformer may be, if he do not combine in himself these three 
peculiarities, his work must fall short of the highest success, 
and prove a mere preparation, like that of Huss, or an un- 
fruitful abortion, as with Savonarola. Of course, moreover, 
the times must be propitious. Yet it will scarcely suffice to 
say that the age was not ripe for reform before Luther. 
Doubtless this is in a measure true, but it is equally true that 
ripe times must often wait for the right man. The three 
groping "councils of reform" show plainly enough that the 
reawakening world, like some terrified child, had long been 
crying for a religious guardian whose torch of truth should 
dispel the surrounding gloom — 

An infant crying in the night ; 
An infant crying for the light; 
And with no language but a cry. 

As the rugged Carlyle so truthfully says, "Alas, we have known 
times call loudly enough for their great man ; but not find him 
when they called! He was not there; Providence had not 
sent him ; the time, calling its loudest, had to go down to con- 
fusion and wreck because he would not come when called." 
The world waited for the Reformation, and waited precisely 
until the day when a rare man could be found who, like Saul 
of Tarsus, combined in himself those three attributes of dual- 
ity, simplicity, and bravery. 

As to duality, if a man is to be a religious leader of men, 
he must not only be religious, he must also be a man. He must 
have both a real communion with God and a genuine sympathy 
with his fellows. Communion will mean joy; sympathy will 
mean passion, or compassion, or suffering. He must know 
how to be obedient to the delectable heavenly vision, and he 
must also learn obedience through the things which he suffers, 

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being one of like passions as we are. He must be a saint, but 
he dare not be a hermit. A hermit can become a herald, noth- 
ing more. The great religious leader must be a soul who with 
one hand can seize the very horns of the altar, while the other 
is busy with the multifold cares of a troubled workaday world. 
As one has said: "The incarnation of the divine in the human 
is the key to all truth, the summary of all life." 

Coupled with this spiritual duality there must be singleness 
of purpose, simplicity of aim, absolute sincerity of vision. 
"The eye must be single." Paul could say, "This one thing I 
do." He determined to know only one thing. And for this 
determination, be it noted, he needed something more than 
moral earnestness. There was also required a keenness of 
mental vision that could pierce through the shells of things 
down to the truth; distinguishing that which is essential to 
the "one thing," and letting the non-essential go very much 
as it will. Thus it is that sincerity, seen from the other side, is 
called tolerance. Sincerity is not only moral singleness, it is 
also simplicity and keenness of vision. 

And, finally, there must be bravery unbounded. 

When a man with these attributes comes into an age that 
is crying for religious reform, Judaism is straightway trans- 
muted into a gospel for the world, or the hidden ear of medi- 
aeval Christianity ripens suddenly into "the full corn in the 
ear" — ^you have a Paul or a Luther. . 

Mention has been often made of the likeness between the 
characters of Luther and St. Paul. Even Renan perceives 
it, and he had scant sympathy with either. In his life of St. 
Paul, the French sceptic says: "That historical character 
which upon the whole bears most analogy to St. Paul is Luther. 
In both there is the same violence in language, the same pas- 
sion, the same energy, the same noble independence, the same 
frantic attachment to a thesis conceived as the truth." The 
analogy is not confined to character, but may be traced also 
in the careers of the two men. This parallel may be fanciful, 
but it is certainly interesting. Paul was brought up a Phari- 
see of the Pharisees, Luther a Catholic of the CathoHcs. Both 
received scholarly and yet devotional training, Paul under 
Gamaliel, Luther influenced by Staupitz. Both were driven 

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by the compulsion of an inner experience to find solace in the 
gospel instead of in the law. Both therefore broke with their 
religion — Paul with Judaism, Luther with Rome. Both were 
persecuted, and escaped their foes only by the stratagem of 
their friends (see Acts ix. 25). Paul's intrepid journey to 
Jerusalem (Acts xxi. 13) is paralleled by Luther's journey to 
Worms; Paul's defence before Agrippa by Luther's before 
Charles. Both had to contend with fanatics who abused the 
liberty of the gospel ; both had to rebuke their chief associates 
for weakness — Paul withstanding Peter, Luther reproving 
Melanchthon. Finally, if any one desires a parallel for the 
plain speech of Luther in the writings of St. Paul, he has 'but 
to read the Greek of certain passages in the Epistles which 
our translations have euphemized. 

What St. Paul's writings did for the church of every age 

Luther's writings did for the church of the Reformation. He 

was a voluminous author. His most important work, of 

course, was the translation of the Bible, finally completed in 

1534. His original writings have often been compared with 

those of St. Paul. Renan, again, says that in all literature 

"the work which resembles most in spirit the Epistle to the 

Galatians is Luther's 'Babylonian Captivity of the Church'." 

His remarkable essay on "The Liberty of a Christian Man" 

abounds in the brilliant, almost blinding, flashes of paradoxical 

truths for which St. Paul is famous. His "Introduction to the 

Epistle to the Romans" might have been written by St. Paul 

himself — must have been written by a man who had lived St. 

Paul's experiences. The chief reason for all of this striking 

similarity of style and matter lies in the simple fact that the 

Paul-like Luther did in effect but rediscover St. Paul. The 

first great principle of the Reformation was the supreme 

authority and efficacy of the word of God, which St. Paul had 

called "the power of God unto salvation." It, not the church, 

nor the councils, nor the Pope, was to furnish the only infallible 

rule of faith and practice. And the heart of the word of God 

Luther proclaimed to be the doctrine of justification by faith. 

This he drew bodily from the Epistles of St. Paul. The truth 

is, the "Church of St. Peter" had practically forgotten all about 

St. Paul, and had forgotten most of the Bible. Paul and his 

"power" were buried beneath the rubbish of tradition and the 

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solid rock of a superb institution. Luther's work was the 
overthrow of this institution — in so far, at least, as it served 
as a sepulchre — and a ruthless sweeping away of traditions. 
The word, uncovered, did the rest. The Reformation was but 
a return to the apostles. The reformer led back to the planter. 
Ruler and mystic had had their day, had served their part, but 
the church had lost the seed which is the word, and Luther 
was the farmer-monk who found it again. And the power 
of the seed does not lie in the husk, which is works, but in the 
kernel, which begets "faith in the bottom of the heart." 

The story of the monk Bernard was beautiful, but it was 
also passing sad. Its sadness consists in its solitude. Some- 
how the life of Bernard, whom Luther called the holiest of 
monks, lacked strikingly the power of self -perpetuation. He 
was startlingly alone. There was not that in his life which 
had power to communicate itself to other lives and transform 
them, as he had been transformed. He remains to this day a 
unique specimen of a wonderful solitary fruit, a "hidden ear," 
hung in the church's granary for men to admire; he did not 
become a seed. He had "the form of godliness," good works ; 
but somehow he could not transmit to the world "the power 
thereof." His life was hidden, immature, imperfect. Itself 
the fruit of a dwarfed and degenerate seed, it could not re- 
generate others. It is as though one should discover, on a 
stalk of growing corn, a beautiful hidden ear. To the outer 
vision this ear seems perfect in form and development. But, 
strip down the husks, look into the heart of the ear, and you 
see that the grain lacks that fulness and hardness and ripeness 
which alone mean reproductive power. Pluck such an ear 
from the stalk, let the grain fall into the ground and die — ^will 
it bear fruit a hundred fold? Such was the beautiful life of 
Bernard. He died, and the world went on as before. His 
fruit had been lovely and fair, but it had missed its fulness; 
it had not been filled out by faith. His story therefore remains 
a mere biography, it is not history ; the record of a career, not 
of a movement. He became a model, but he never became a 
life. He was an example, but not a seed. 

Luther, on the other hand, became a tremendous force in 
the world, not only for his own time, but increasingly with 
the times to come. It is not that his works were holier than 

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those of the saintly Bernard, but that he had the kernel of 
faith in the bottom of the heart His was not a hidden life. 
Yet the glory is not to him, but to the divine principle within 
him. As in no age, since the planting of the church, has 
the period since the Reformation witnessed the power 
of "the full corn in the ear," the power of a reduplicating life. 
The quickening power of the church to-day touches thousands 
of human lives and transforms them, because it is a life im- 
pelling from within, not an example beckoning from without. 
"So is the kingdom of God, as if a man should cast seed into 
the ground ; and the seed should spring and grow up, he know- 
eth not how ; first the blade, then the ear, after that the full 
com in the ear." Each age has had its planters, and its rulers, 
and its mystics, and its reformers. But the signal glory of this 
age is not its planting, wide as that has been, nor yet the 
spreading of the blade at the magic touch of Christian ruler- 
ship, nor yet the hidden saintly lives of its meditative mystics. 
The glory of this age is that the church is becoming reformed 
through having the spirit of Christ formed within it. The 
ripening corn of this present Christian age receives its nutri- 
fying milk from the sincere, uncovered word, ... 

The Evangelican Lutheran church, whose formal bond of 
union is the Augsburg Confession, comprises to-day a total 
baptized membership of nearly sixty million souls, of whom 
five-sixths are to be found in Europe. Germany and Scandi- 
navia are the Lutheran strongholds. In North America growth 
has been very rapid during the last twenty years, so that the 
Lutheran and Presbyterian churches now vie with each other 
for third rank in the matter of numerical strength, the Meth- 
odists and Baptists leading. The Lutheran church has grave 
difficulties to contend with in this country, arising chiefly from 
the fact that it must deal with large numbers of communicants 
who do not speak the English language, and are not yet in 
touch with American institutions. Lutheran ministers preach 
the gospel in fourteen different languages in the United States, 
and superintend the transition of the children of thousands of 
European parents into a true American citizenship, thus achiev- 
ing a home mission work of enormous magnitude and of un- 
told importance. 

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From 'Four Princes.' Copyright, J. B. Lippincott Company, and used here by 
permission of the publishers. 

. . . Pierre AsfeLARD is the most brilliant and most tragic fig- 
ure in the history of the church. The wealth of his knightly 
family provided his youth with the tutelage of the great nomi- 
nalist, Roscellin, whose influence forever fixed the cast of his 
brilliant mind. The conflict of nominalism with realism, that is 
to say, of the rationalist with the mystic, of Aristotle against 
Plato, forms the moving power in the whole history of scho- 
lastic philosophy. Abelard proved to be such an apt disciple 
of Aristotelianism that when he afterwards studied dialectics 
in Paris, under the Platonist, William of Champeaux, he gave 
"infinite trouble with his subtle objections, and not seldom got 
the better" of his master. 

Having become at last an accomplished adept in the use 
of William's own weapons, he drove his erstwhile master in 
merciless triumph from his chair in the university, himself be- 
coming the cynosure of intellectual Europe and the very idol 
of the city of Paris. Notwithstanding the tumult of the times, 
so unfavorable to the pursuit of scholarship, more than five 
thousand pupils shortly gathered around his chair from every 
quarter of the Continent. The close of the century in which 
he labored found the university numbering its pupils as ten 
thousand instead of a few hundred, while Paris itself had 
grown from a town of insignificant proportions to a "city 
of two hundred thousand souls, walled, paved, with several 
fine buildings and a fair organization." Far and away the 
chief agent in this wonderful municipal development was the 
magnetic personality of Abelard, whose mind, in point of sheer 
keenness and brilliancy, stands almost alone in the intellectual 
annals of the more modern world. Before he was forty years 
old he had reached the highest academic position in Christen- 
dom, finding himself the centre of a life such as the world 
had not witnessed since the palmiest days of Athens. 

Then it was that Nemesis crossed his pathway in the guise 
of a gentle girl Hitherto absorbed in mental pursuits, the 
scholar had given no thought to love. But now he suddenly 

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became infatuated with the eighteen-year-old niece of a canon 
named Fulbert, in whose house he quickly contrived to find 
lodgings. The student was soon lost in the lover. Day after 
day a murmuring throng was turned away untaught, while 
Abelard's melodious voice could be heard through Fulbert's 
window, tremulous with the songs of an ardent love. 

It was the world-old story of Faust and Gretchen. Mar- 
riage, under the laws and customs of those days, would have 
been fatal to Abelard's prospects — a consideration of greater 
importance to the unselfish Heloise than even her own fair 
name. "She asked," he writes, "what glory she would win 
from me, when she had rendered me inglorious and had 
humbled both me and her. How great a punishment the 
world would inflict on her if she deprived it of so resplendent 
a light ; what curses, what loss to the church, what philosophic 
tears, would follow such a marriage! How outrageous, how 
pitiful it was, that he whom nature had created for the com- 
mon blessing should be devoted to one woman, and plunged 
in so deep a disgrace. Profoundly did she hate the thought 
of a marriage that would prove so humiliating and so bur- 
densome in every respect to me." 

To appease the wrath of her uncle, however, Heloise finally 
consented to a strictly secret marriage, although "weeping and 
sobbing vehemently." Fulbert straightway broke his faith and 
divulged the marriage. Whereupon, when questioned by the 
curious, the young wife, thoughtful only of her husband's 
welfare, denied the report absolutely! Abelard weakly con- 
nived in this denial by removing her from Paris to the con- 
vent of Argenteuil; whereupon her infuriated relatives 
wreaked vengeance upon him in an unspeakably shameful man- 
ner, that left him forever a crushed and broken man. 

Ordering Heloise tp take the veil at Argenteuil, he him- 
self sought seclusion in the monastery of St. Denis. But 
his students followed him. After several years of restless 
life at St. Denis, he endeavored to bury himself in the hermit 
life of the desert. But "no sooner was his place of retreat 
known than he was followed into the wilderness by hosts of 
students of all ranks, who lived in tents, slept on the ground, 
and underwent every kind of hardship in order to listen to 
him." To the establishment thus founded he gave the sug- 
gestive name of "The Paraclete" (The Comforter)]. 

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His ecclesiastical enemies had long been numerous and 
exceedingly bitter, for the brilliant monk was charged with 
heresy, in an age when orthodoxy was everything. These 
made his wrecked life a torture. Restlessly retiring from 
The Paraclete, he once again sought quiet, this time as abbot 
of the bleak monastery of St. Gildas. Upon taking this step 
he made over the property of his deserted establishment to the 
Abbess Heloise, who, with her nuns, had been turned home- 
less into the world through the inveterate hatred of her hus- 
band's foes. Here she spent the remainder of her life, sur- 
viving the unfortunate Abelard more than twenty years. 

He was most miserable at St. Gildas. Wherever he turned, 
in fact, cloud upon cloud settled thick and dark before him. 
After nine years of painful struggle in this abbotship, he 
endeavored once more to find eremite retirement, and it was 
under such circumstances that he wrote the pitiful "Story of 
my Calamities." This little narrative fell into the hands of 
his ever faithful wife, whereupon ensued a correspondence, 
which, for genuine tragic pathos and human interest, is said 
to be without an equal in the literature of the world. For it 
chanced that the intellectual gifts of Heloise were no less 
unusual than those which distinguished her both for beauty of 
person and for the unselfish devotion of her affections. Once 
when the French philosopher, Cousin, was asked who was 
the most lovable woman of history, he answered, "Heloise, 
that noble creature who loved like a Saint Theresa, wrote 
sometimes like a Seneca, and whose charm must have been 
irresistible, since she charmed Saint Bernard himself." 

After several years of troubled seclusion the tumultuous 
Abelard was impelled to return once more to the arena of his 
former triumphs, at Paris ; but now at length he was destined 
to meet the gladiator who was to put an end to his astonishing 
and erratic career. We have dwelt thus long upon the life 
of Abelard, not only because of its deep human interest, but 
also in order to bring out the complete contrast between him 
and the only man that ever vanquished him, the ascetic Ab- 
bot of Claivaux. After his defeat the condemned and excom- 
municated Abelard found final asylum in the hospitable abbey 
of Quny. After two years of humble prayer and penance, he 
died, broken-hearted, at the age of sixty-three. Although 

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despised and outcast then, the development of subsequent 
centuries has shown that in many of his fundamental posi- 
tions he was simply in advance of his age, the keenness of 
his penetration piercing a future which to less brilliant eyes 
was veiled. ... 

Legend says that when the body of the noble Heloise 
was at last placed in the monolith coffin beside his own he 
opened his arms and clasped her in a close embrace. In 
death, at least, they were not divided. The cemetery of Pere 
Lachaise, in Paris, is continually visited by crowds of men 
and women who take wreaths and flowers to lay in solemn 
pity upon the tombs of these who loved "not wisely, but too 
well," and afterwards endeavored to expiate their folly by 
lives of the most piteous sacrifice. 


From 'Japan To-day.* Copyright, J. B. Lippincott Company and used here by 
permission of the publishers. 

In what senses may Japan be called the Land of the Rising 
Sun? Leaving aside the obvious geographical fact that Japan 
is appropriately called Sunrise-Land because it lies so very 
far east, let us consider what thought is first suggested to our 
minds by the fact of the sunrise. Is it not a thought of beauty ? 
Is there anything on earth more beautiful than this every- 
day event of the sunrise? Stand at dawn "tiptoe upon a 
little hill." Watch the sky clothe herself in crimson for the 
coming of her king. Then see him come in majesty, "re- 
joicing in the east" — that splendid sovereign "of this great 
world both eye and soul" — and the mind is fairly thrilled with 
a sense of all the beauty wherewith "God the Beautiful" has 
blessed His splendid world. So Japan the land of the sun- 
rise, is a land of the sunrise beauty. 

The first journey I took, on the day after landing, was 
by rail from Yokohama to Kamakura. We got into a little 
railway-car quite different from those we have at home, for it 
was built on the European model; the porter locked us in; 
a little engine gave a mighty shriek, and then glided out, 
through green rice-fields and across narrow streams, into the 

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country. The miniature train hurried with a fair degree of 
speed through villages most picturesque, their houses thatched 
with straw ; across rice-fields, laid out with perfect orderliness, 
the peasants wading knee-deep in the water; through groves 
of giant trees, under the bluest of blue skies, in sight of the 
purple mountains, onward to the ancient capital of Kamakura. 
Once a city of a million souls was here; now nothing but a 
fishing village remains, with one sole remnant of the ancient 

I mean the mighty Buddha. It is an image of solid bronze 
reared in honor of the great Gautama, who has more follow- 
ers to-day than any other man that ever lived ; an image which 
for centuries has been the Mecca of pious pilgrims from 
throughout the Empire. The approach is through an avenue 
of tall and stately trees, which give hospitable entertainment 
to numberless jet-black cfows, cawing boldly in the branches 
just above us, as though well aware that all life is safe within 
the sacred groves of Buddha. At the end of the avenue is the 
idol, the most celebrated and beautiful in all this idolatrous 
island. Gautama is represented as sitting in a lotus bower, his 
hands folded placidly before him. The eyes, which are of 
pure gold, are cast down in modest contemplation; the entire 
expression is profoundly sweet and thoughtful. To get a 
proper idea of the size of this colossal image, you must know 
that it is almost fifty feet in height, or as tall as an ordinary 
three-story dwelling. The great, gentle mouth is over a yard 
in width and the ears are six feet in length. There are upon 
the head eight hundred and thirty curls of bronze, each nine 
inches long. The thumb measures three feet around, and the 
distance from one great folded knee to the other is nearly 
twelve yards. As a work of colossal art, Dai Butsu is grandly 
beautiful. Idol though it be, one cannot but feel a sense of 
awe as he looks with upturned face into the vast placid coun- 
tenance of this noble Buddha, who has seen the strifes of cen- 
turies and before whose "eternal calm" millions have bent in 
humble adoration. Not without meaning are the sonorous 
words at the gateway: 

O stranger, whosoever thou art, and whatsoever be thy creed, 
when thou enterest this sanctuary remember that thou treadest upon 
ground hallowed by the worship of ages. This is the temple of 

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Buddha and the gate of the Eternal, and should therefore be entered 
with reverence. 

With a feeling indeed of reverence, not for the idol itself, 
but for the blind yet devoted faith of millions, we turned 
thoughtfully away. 

Out to the open sea! 

In a little boat we sailed through shimmering waters to 
the fairy island of Enoshima, fabled to have risen from the 
sea in a single night. The legend is possibly true, for much of 
Japan is of volcanic and cataclysmic origin. The place is 
sacred to the goddess of Good Luck. Up the single zigzag 
street we climb, beset on every side by venders of beautiful 
shells and various other wonders of the deep. Through dense- 
ly wooded sumhiit we press to the open, with its marvellous 
view of the sea and the curving mainland beyond. The blue 
Pacific breaks white on the beach beneath us. In the distance 
are many white and graceful ships, skimming the waves like 
birda Around us are myriad evergreens and brilliant flowers. 
And far, far away, swimming amid bright clouds, all his 
roughness lost in that enchantment lent by distance to the view, 
and wearing his eternal crown of snow, looms Fuji the Peer- 
less, king of all the mountains in this mountainous land, and 
most perfect in form of all the mountains in the world. A 
perfect cone, truncated ; the base lost in clouds, seemingly sus- 
pended, like some vast splendid vision, in the turquoise skyl 
It is a sight one can never forget. 

Yet there are still more beautiful sights in this wonderful 
Sunrise-Land, this country where beauty abounds. The people 
themselves say: 

"Do not say 'Kekko' until you have seen Nikko!" 

Kekko means beautiful, and Nikko is their favorite beauty 
spot. There is probably no other place in the whole world 
that combines in such marvellous degree the beauties of art 
with the beauties of nature. As for the landscape, it varies in 
impressiveness from the awful sublimity of great volcanoes 
to the placid gleam of crystal lake and boisterous rush of 
waterfall. One day we climbed a cliff, whence one peers tim- 
orously into an ulcered chasm wherefrom in former days the 
lava spouted, but where to-day seven soothing streams glide 

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down the scarred and frowning walls, as if in gentle endeavor 
to smooth out the wounds of the ancient battle. The town of 
Nikko, founded in the year 820, finds a home for itself in the 
very heart of these awful hills; but the erosive power of water 
does its work even on the greatest heights, whence more than 
twenty brooks leap into bright cascades, miniature Niagaras. 
The largest has a fall of three hundred and fifty feet for its 
slender silver stream. In plain view towers the peak of Nan- 
Tai-Zan, more than eight thousand feet in height; its rival, 
Nyo-Ho-Zan, is to be seen upon the right ; while in the rear 
stands restless Shirane, the tallest and most fearful of all the 
Nikko volcanoes, which was in eruption so recently as 1889. 
Everywhere grow tall and stately cryptomeria, at times set 
out in ancient avenues many miles in length, and rivalled in 
our own country solely by the great trees of California. 

But I spoke of the beauties of art. It is characteristic of 
the Japanese to seek the most beautiful surroundings for their 
shrines. They are notably a race of beauty-worshippers. You 
can visit no great mountain-peak, no large cascade, no peaceful 
lake, without finding there some shrine or temple to the gods 
of nature. It is only to be expected then, that Nikko should 
be rich in art, to match its natural wealth. lyeyasu, the great- 
est Japanese of ?ill history, finds his last resting-place where the 
best of nature can do him tribute with a tomb. He was buried 
here in 16 16, and his illustrious successor, lemitsu, keeps him 
solemn company. About these famous tombs great temples 
have been reared, which excel in prodigal magnificence any- 
thing else in Japan. A single waiting-room will sometimes 
represent a fortune. The most exquisite decorations in wood 
and silk and gold everywhere abound. In neighboring groves 
rise graceful pagodas, with towering monuments of stone or 
bronze. It is all a vast palace and a paradise. Japan the 
Beautiful! — Land of the Rising Sun; land of the sunrise 

But the rising sun suggests to the thoughtful mind not 
merely the idea of beauty. As one watches the ascent of that 
mighty blazing ball, he is impressed also with a sense of the 
mystery and awesomeness of nature. What would happen 
should the sun for a single instant delay his ordered coming? 
Who upholds his vast weight ? What power propels him from 

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his^ bath in the eastward sea? What pilot guides him in his 
daily course across the sky? The sunrise, to a thoughtful 
mind, is suggestive of the mystery and power of nature, so 
that we cry with Ossian : 

Whence are thy beams, O sun — thine everlasting light? Thou 
comest forth in thine awful beauty — the stars hide themselves in the 
sky — the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave — ^thou thy- 
self ridest alone ! 


From 'Young Japan/ Copyright, J. B. Lippincott Company, and used here by 
permission of the publishers. 

Bravery has always been the chief ideal of Japanese char- 
acter. What beauty meant to the Greeks, and right to the 
Romans, and purity to the Hebrews of old, bravery has meant 
to Japan. A man may be whatever else he pleases, but if he 
only be brave, he keeps the respect of his fellows, and may even 
become a demigod. An old proverb runs, "Among flowers, the 
cherry; among men, the warrior." Every one knows that the 
cherry-blossom is queen in the "Flowery Kingdom;" so is the 
soldier the king among men. In the middle ages, the develop- 
ment of bravery was undertaken with deliberate system; and 
in the schools of the Tokugawa period martial exercises were 
made a part of the daily curriculum. This was of a kind 
far different from the training in the military schools of the 
West; with us our soldier-work is play, but in Japan it was 
earnest to the death. The highest test of physical courage is 
the willingness to yield one's own life; and the institution of 
hara-kiri was drilled into the very marrow of the nation. The 
young men at school "went through again and again the tragic 
details of the commission of hara-kiri, and had it impressed on 
their youthful imaginations with such force and vividness 
that when the time for its actual enactment came, they were 
able to meet the bloody reality without a tremor and with per- 
fect composure." Even the women were taught the equivalent 
duty of jigai — that is to say, "piercing the throat with a dag- 
ger so as to sever the arteries by a single thrust-and-cut move- 
ment." The samurai maiden in service was bound by loyalty 
to her mistress not less closely than the warrior to the lord, 

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and the heroines of Japanese feudalism were many. Judged 
from the ethical point of view, suicide is the most cowardly 
of crimes. But the Japanese, blind to the moral aspect of the 
deed, have exalted it into a virtue because it tests physical 
bravery. And the elaboration of suicide into a national insti- 
tution, practised and belauded for centuries, has doubtless 
done more than anything else to make the Japanese soldier so 

Next to bravery itself, the quality which the Japanese most 
highly prize is patriotic loyalty. The roots of this virtue were 
traced in the first part of this book to the religious tenets of 
filialism. In Oriental usage the term "father" is so broad as 
to include any superior, and the obligation of filial piety be- 
comes the more intense as the authority ascends. In the school- 
ing period of Japan, the retainer was taught loyalty to his 
daimyo by the most heroic methods. For example, upon the 
death of his lord, he was to be ready for a living burial for 
himself, only his head remaining above ground, while he was 
left to starve slowly to death, and that without murmuring. 
Many a heroic retainer endured this supreme test of loyalty. 
Kusunoki, one of Go-Daigo's generals, and a paragon of 
Japanese patriotism, prayed for seven lives that he might give 
them all to his master. lyeyasu and his followers succeeded 
in binding the daimyo to the Shogun as the retainer was bound 
to the daimyo, and thus Japan was welded into a unity such as 
few countries have seen. lyemitsu compelled all pf the daimyo 
to live at the capital during six months of the year, and to leave 
their wives and families there for the other half. The daimyo 
took oath to be obedient to his orders, sealing the pledge with 
their blood. He assumed the additional title of Tai Kun ("ty- 
coon"), meaning "great prince," and it was retained by all of 
his successors. But the loyalty of retainer and daimyo and 
Shogun alike was ultimately centred in the Emperor. Al- 
though his rule seemed often enough to be no more than a 
name, yet his "heavenly descent" and the mysterious seclusion 
that veiled him appealed powerfully to the sentiment of the 
people, who have ever held him in awe. Thus there resulted 
a unified organism of government, based upon an ever cen- 
tralizing loyalty, which endures essentially to this day, and 
gives Japan a power out of all proportion to mere size. The 

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Emperor is the soul of the realm, to which the whole body does 
reverence; the Shogunate (now supplanted by the clan minis- 
try) being the brain, while the masses furnish the brawn. 
Loyalty is the life-principle that binds all into a common whole, 
for loyalty is even the law of the Emperor, who worships his 
own ancestors. 

The Tokugawa period provided full opportunity for drill 
in the habit of thoroughness. lyeyasu set an example in the 
study of the Chinese classics that was eagerly emulated by 
posterity. So ingrained has Chinese become in the literary 
language of Japan that no one can master the latter who does 
not know also the former. Consequently, a Japanese school- 
boy does not learn to "read" until he is sixteen or s^^venteen 
years of age, because of the immense multiplicity and complex- 
ity of the Chinese ideographs. That is to say, where an Amer- 
ican school-boy has to learn an alphabet of only twenty-six 
simple letters, the Japanese school-boy must master at least 
five thousand out of a total of sixty thousand ideographs, most 
of which are exceedingly complex, and many of which are 
differentiated only in the minutest particulars. But consider 
what this means towards thoroughness. Poring over these 
"Chinese puzzles" for generations has had the effect of em- 
phasizing the native tendency of attention to detail until thor- 
oughness has become a most marked characteristic. Coupled 
with an inherent estheticism, which the Tokugawa influences 
fostered into exquisite taste ; and linked with the Oriental habit 
of patient industry, Japanese thoroughness has produced the 
most minutely perfect specimens of art that have ever delighted 
the world. An artist will chisel at a little block of ivory for 
years — not to reap pecuniary reward, but to satisfy his passion 
towards perfection — until at length you hold in your hands a 
tiny figure which is a microcosm in itself, and will yield to the 
microscope alone the completeness of its dainty perfections. 
The same is true of cloisonne work, and of the exquisite pro- 
ductions in lacquer. I have before me as I write a napkin-ring 
of Kyoto cloisonne that is less than two inches in diameter, 
with a band not quite an inch wide, upon which I have counted 
seventy-eight separate designs, made in twenty shades of color, 
and from at least four hundred pieces of metal. It is an object- 
lesson in Japanese thoroughness. 

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Now, It used to be said by critics, that while the Japanese 
are thorough in minutiae, they lack the capacity for thorough- 
ness in things that are really worth while. It was pointed out 
that while producing ivory carvings at home, they had to send 
abroad for their battleships; but the critics were in too great 
a hurry. You cannot build battleships without a shipyard. 
The nation now has its docks and ship factories at Yokosuka, 
where, in an amazingly short space of time, Japanese officers 
have so emulated the example of Peter the Great of Russia 
that now the Japanese are beginning to build vessels that vie 
with those of any nation in the world. 

If any additional proof were needed of Japanese thor- 
oughness, it has certainly been furnished in the course of the 
great war with Russia. With a foresight that overlooked 
nothing, and with an attentiveness that scrutinized everything, 
they planned and executed a campaign which for sheer thor- 
oughness has never been surpassed in human history. Doubt- 
less the school in which they perfected this priceless habit was 
the seclusive session of the Tokugawa. 

A mental quality which is the complement of thorough- 
ness is the equally valuable habit of alertness. This also was 
taught to an already nimble race until they have become a 
nation of "prestidigitators." Sleight-of-hand is nothing but 
a dexterity so rapid that the movements are lost by the eye, 
resulting in effects that had no visible cause. For the last 
fifty years, Japan has played the role of magician, while the 
audience of nations has gazed open-mouthed at this marvel- 
lous handling of great implements whereof the little land had 
but now been altogether ignorant. As Lafcadio Hearn sug- 
gests, Japan has been playing jiu-jitsu with the complex civili- 
zation of the West. This is an art, or a science, which grew 
out of the silence of those hermit-dfiys when Japan was 
developing her peculiar genius to perfection. It is occult, 
but its mystery is the mystery of swiftness coupled with sci- 
entific skill. That is to say, jiu-jitsu is embodied alertness. 
The first time I saw it practised was on the grounds of our 
old college campus, where we had two or three Japanese stu- 
dents. One of them was standing one day at a ball-game, when 
a great strapping student from the backwoods came clumsily 
and threw him on the groimd. The dapper little man arose 

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smiling, flicked off the dust from his clothes, and quietly bided 
his time. No one foresaw what was coming. He waited until 
the big bundle of brawn stood lost in contemplation of the 
gamC; then he came swiftly behind him and with just a flash, 
just a touch that was nothing — ^there sprawled his great foe 
on the ground! We who saw it were mystified, but the big 
victim was most mystified of all. He had felt nothing until 
he felt the ground. Later on I witnessed private exhibitions 
in Japan, but came away hardly the wiser. It is remarkable 
skill in anatomy joined with marvellous agility — it is not 
strength, but softness and swiftness — it uses the strength of 
the foe as the strongest weapon against him — its name calls it 
"the science of gentleness." Experts in jiu-jitsu appear to 
achieve the miraculous. There lies a stalwart antagonist with 
a bone broken, a great tendon strained, or even in a state of 
suspended animation: how was it done? Not by force, but 
by swift softness. He was lured on to overreach himself, 
until there was a sudden, invisible, nimble flash, and it was over. 
But there is no need to write further, for has not Japan played 
jiu-jitsu with Russia while all the world wondered ? The chief 
secret of her brilliant campaign is in her astounding alertness, 
which is a marked characteristic of the race. For quick recep- 
tiveness and rapid assimilation of mental food they are without 
parallel in the history of the world; the will springing out 
into action as soon as the concept is formed. "The race is not 
always to the swift, nor the battle to the brave;" but Japan 
combines the boldness of the lion with the swiftness of the 

It is of no use to school the heart arid the mind, however, 
unless the will also be trained. The most important lesson 
that it can learn is self-control. And let it be remembered 
that Buddhism, with all of its errors, brought this greatly 
needed lesson to Japan. The Japanese by nature is intensely 
individual — impatient of restraint, impetuous, restive, head- 
long — eager to live his own life in his own way, to fulfil the 
mission of the individual, heedless of the welfare of the race. 
Buddhism came and laid its soothing hand upon him. It bade 
him be still, to repress his desires, to seek his Nirvana in ex- 
tinction, to lose his one life in the All. The Japanese has 
never been a thorough convert to Buddhism, simply because it 

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contradicts his nature. But by an age-long familiarity with 
its teachings, which were drilled into his mind from early 
childhood, he received from this great religion of repression 
precisely the will-discipline he needed. Unlike the phlegmatic 
Chinese, his impassiveness is not innate, but acquired. "Child- 
hood" under the tutorship of Buddhism has enabled him to 
bridle his fiery will in such fashion that he guides it in what 
direction he pleases. When at length he came out from his 
seclusion suddenly into the dazzling arena, it was to this 
Buddhistic schooling of the will that he owed the strength 
so to restrain himself from surprise, and so to direct his won- 
derfully developed powers of mind and heart as to become 
the modem wonder of the world. 

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[I860— i 



OLLY ELLIOTT SEAWELL was born in Gloucester County, 
•Virginia, at her father's country place, "The Shelter," in a 
house which had been a hospital during the Revolution. Her paternal 
grandmother was the sister of John Tyler, tenth President of the 
United States. Her father, John Tyler Seawell, was a lawyer and 
scholar. He surrounded himself with classical books, which he read 
a great deal to the exclusion of modern literature. His wife was a 
Miss Jackson of Baltimore, a beautiful girl and a charming woman 
up to the day of her death at the age of seventy. Readers of Miss 
Seawell's books can trace the influence of her father upon her mind. 
She is a modem novelist, but she adheres to well-established stand- 
ards of taste, and the words she uses can be found in old dictionaries 
as well as new. In her occasional controversial articles, also, she 
shows that she imbibed from association with a lawyer power to 
reason to a point. 

Where Miss Seawell spent her childhood and youth the Chesa- 
peake Bay makes rivers and inlets into the land at points a few 
miles apart, and the inhabitants row or sail to see one another instead 
of driving; while many of the houses stand by the water's edge. 
"The Shelter*' was at some distance from the water, but the aquatic 
spirit of the region affected John Seawell's daughter, and a member 
of the household was an uncle, Joseph Seawell, who had been a lieu- 
tenant in the Navy, until the Civil War broke out, and who told her 
many stories of ships and the sea. Thus it was that, when she began 
to write, she naturally turned to naval and^sea topics, in the treat- 
ment of which subjects she has excelled. 

Her first important production was a naval story for boys called 
"Little Jarvis," which won the prize offered by the Youth's Com- 
panion in 1890; from this point her reputation as a writer may be 
said to have been established, nor has she since written an)rthing of 
merit so enduring as this story of the heroic death for duty's sake 
of a noble-hearted boy. The critic must go further and say that 
there are few American story-writers who have shown so happy an 
inspiration in the choice of a subject or so true an artist's touch in 
the treatment. It belongs among the classics of American litera- 
ture, and by itself should have served to make its author famous. 

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The basis of "Little Jarvis'* is an incident in American naval 
history, and Miss Seawell has written several historical novels, biog- 
raphies and historical stories and articles. From the historian's point 
of view, they show no more than a familiar knowledge of her sub- 
jects and skill in the use of that knowledge without, exhaustive re- 
search. While her historical books for boys serve their purpose 
well, her instinct is obviously that of the story-writer rather than 
of the historian. Her historical novels, however, catch the spirit 
of the scene in which they are laid and show dramatic talent. They 
show also versatility in the choice of subjects, and she has depicted 
European events as well as American. The House of Egremont,' for 
instance, is a novel of the time of James I, who is one of Miss Sea- 
well's favorite characters, and the scene shifts from England to 
France and back again to England. The historical atmosphere is well 
painted; of the characters, the old men and women are good; the 
young ladies and gentlemen conventional; the comedy characters 
enlivening; but the low-born heroine, "Red Bess," is admirable; in- 
deed, better than all the other characters considered together, being, 
in fact, one of the strongest portrayals Miss Seawell has ever made. 
The chief merit of the book lies, however, in the situations, which 
are often described with real power. The plot is not the strong 
point in this or in any other of her novels. 

In 189s Miss Seawell won the New York Herald prize for the 
best story with "The Sprightly Romance of Marsac." The chief 
professional story-writers in the country competed, as well as many 
amateurs, and her success over all was a notable achievement. As 
for the piece itself, the most that can be said is that it is amusing, 
the movement being quick and the dialogue humorous. It has the 
characteristics of a play rather than of a story; and in due season 
it was turned back into the dramatic form in which evidently it had 
first been cast, and had a successful theatrical career. 

The construction of a modern play is hardly literature, for it is 
the art of building up about a simple plot situations and actions to 
please the eye, and creating characters who talk in crisp and catching 
dialogues to please the ear. It is only meant to be acted and is seldom 
read. That it is a difficult art is proved by the fact that there are 
hardly any successful playwrights in our country, although many 
persons write plays that are rejected by theatrical managers who 
would be glad to accept them if they had merit. Where so many fail 
Miss Seawell has succeeded, and several of her plays have appeared 
on the stage and been well patronized by the public, while dramatic 
critics have commented upon them favorably. Undoubtedly, the 
future holds further rewards for her in this lucrative field. 

In 1906 Miss Seaweirs novel The Victory* appeared. The his- 

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torical basis is the Civil War, and the scene is laid in tide-water 
Virginia, which she knows as she can never expect to know any 
other land. Here, then, we find real richness of local coloring; here 
the characters are drawn from real life; and here is the infinite 
and never-flagging interest which must always attach to the pathetic 
picture of broken homes and the desolation of hopes. The whole 
toae, too, is mellow and unmarred by bitterness. The reader may 
object to the complications of the heroine*^ heart history and to an 
ending which seems unreal; but he puts down the book with the 
feeling that he has read something that was worth his while and that 
he will not forget. In another of her Virginia novels, 'Children of 
Destiny,' there is not nearly so great a display of power as in The 
Victory,' but that, too, has the charm of truth, and in it figures a 
woman, Mrs. Blair, who is one of her most real and beautiful char- 
acters. Her first novel was another Virginia story, Throckmorton' ; 
it did not establish her reputation, but it is a good story and the 
character of the old general is probably the best of her old Southern- 
gentleman types. 

This brief notice of her work considers only those books that are 
typical of the kind of writing Miss Seawell has done. The best, in 
the writer's judgment, are the naval stories and the Virginia novels, 
and these reach a high level. The future holds in store for her de- 
velopment in the various fields in which she has already entered, and 
it is not probable that she will enlarge a scope which already covers 
a wide field. Her greatest material success will doubtless come 
from further playwriting. 

After her father's death, about eighteen years ago. Miss Seawell 
went to Washington with her mother and sister, and there she has 
established her permanent home in the winter, usually spending her 
summers in Europe. She has become the center of a circle of friends 
who arc attracted by her colloquial talents and her goodness of heart, 
as well as her rare intellectual gifts. 

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Little Jarvis. D. Appleton and Company, 1890. 

Throckmorton. D. Appleton and Company, 1890. 

Midshipman Paulding. D. Appleton and Company, 1891. 

Children of Destiny. D. Appleton and Company, 1892. 

Paul Jones. D. Appleton and Company, 1893. 

Decatur and Somers. D. Appleton and Company, 1894. 

A Strange, Sad Comedy. The Century Company, 1895. 

The Sprightly Romance of Marsac. Charles Scribner's Sons, 1895. 

A Virginia Cavalier. Harper and Brothers, 1896. 

The Rock of the Lion. Harper and Brothers, 1897. 

The History of Lady Betty Stair. Charles Scribner's Sons, 1897. 

Gavin Hamilton. Harper and Brothers, 1898. 

The House of Egremont. Charles Scribner's Sons, 1901. 

Papa Bouchard. Charles Scribner's Sons, 1901. 

Francezka. Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1902. 

The Fortunes of Fifi. Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1903. 
aJL \i lt%w ^^ Secret of Tom. D. Appleton and Company, 1905. 
•** ^^^^T'he Last Duchess of Belgrade. D. Appleton and Company, 1908. 


From Scribner's Magasine, August, 1897, and used here by permission of the author 

and the publishers. 

Rank and fortune are everything. That I know, not from 
having them, but from the want of them. To cast a man upon 
the world with nothing but merit is like throwing him head- 
long into a den of tigers with a wooden sword to defend him- 
self. If I knew how to use a pen as well as I know how to use 
a carbine, I could make this much clearer, but the plain recital 
of what I have done and suffered will be a convincing argu- 
ment that what I say is true. 

I was born in the town of Marne, while my father was 
there on conscript service. He was a man of sense and of 
spirit, and lost his life — ^how do you think? In a quarrel with 
a brother officer over a dancing dog! My mother, poor soul, 
soon followed him into the other country. I had a great-uncle 
in Marne, a notary, and I was about to say that he fed and 

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clothed me until my sixteenth year — ^but let that pass. He kept 
me from starving, and I was never arrested for being in rags. 

I think I could have stood my hard fare and thin jacket 
better if I had not seen at intervals the little Marquis de Rav- 
enel — ^the handsomest youngster imaginable, a younger and 
slighter boy than I, always galloping over the country on his 
pony, and a regular little prince thereabout, for he was the 
heir of the splendid chateau on the hill. He stood for me as 
the embodiment of youth and happiness. He was a fiery little 
fellow, and would fly into rages with his tutor and his grooms, 
and even his horses and dogs; and I remember seeing him 
one day on the highway, in a gust of temper, swearing like a 
pirate and wanting to fight a groom twice his size, who ran 
away laughing, but looked frightened too. Oh, how. I longed 
to be like that little Marquis ! 

My uncle did not think I had the capacity for the profes- 
sion of the long robe ; and God knows if I had the capacity, I 
had not the taste, for I meant to be a soldier. My uncle de- 
termined to make me apprentice to an apothecary. We argued 
the point, and my uncle brought a clinching argument to bear 
on me in the end — he put me on bread and water. I stood it 
stoutly for exactly nine hours — ^but hunger is a creditor who 
will not be put off with promises to pay — so, next morning, I 
was busy at pounding drugs in a mortar. I pounded indus- 
triously for about an hour, thinking all the time what a shabby 
trade was drug-pounding compared with soldiering, and my 
reflections brought me to the point of resolving that if ever I 
engaged systematically in the business of killing my fellow- 
men, I would at least give them an equal chance with myself 
— in short, I concluded to run away and enlist. Having thus 
determined, I sneaked out of the apothecary's shop, and with- 
out going through the formality of asking my uncle's consent, I 
made for the high-road at the top of my speed. 

Never shall I forget that day. It was at the beginning of 
May, and not ten thousand poets could describe its beauty, or 
the rapture it inspired in my breast ; so, being a plain soldier, 
please excuse me from trying to tell of it. By hook and by 
crook, with the assistance of a few francs I had, I managed, 
next day, to reach the little town where the conscript depot 
was, and just as the officer in charge was about shutting up 

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his bureau for the night, I presented myself. Now, being un- 
der eighteen, I had been wondering how I would get in the 
army, and had gloomily determined that it would be my fate 
to enlist as a drummer : but one look on the officer's part at my 
height and figure showed me he meant to have me. I may 
say, now that I am as yellow as a kite's foot, with my face 
embroidered by several sabre cuts from Kabyle swords, with 
the rheumatism all over me, and one knee as stiff as iron, that 
I was a stalwart fellow at sixteen. 

"Eighteen, did you say?" said the officer, taking down his 
book. I had said nothing, but I was put down as eighteen. 
The Sergeant who took me into another room and examined 
me, as a butcher examines a bullock, would not have let me 
go for- a hundred francs ; and so, before I slept that night, I 
was enlisted in the forty-third regiment of the line. So came 
to an end the first epoch of my life and so opened the second. 
• I would like to tell all that happened in the next twelve 
years, but I perceive that when one is writing about one's 
self the smallest particulars appear important, and if one put 
down all that appear interesting, a hundred books could be 
written in each life. I shall, therefore, only say that I early 
perceived my fate was in my own hands. The system of con- 
scription has this advantage, that it brings one into contact 
with all classes of people; and the fact that there must be a 
separation of classes among the enlisted men, opens a door to 
those, like myself, who wish to make an honorable place in 
the world; and when my term of enlistment was up, I saw 
myself, at twenty-one, a sub-lieutenant. 

Perhaps, if I had known the agonies of trying to live upon 
my pay, my heart might have failed at the last moment. My 
regiment was commonly known in the army as the Misers — 
there were so many poor men in it that- our brother officers 
affected to believe that we were saving up millions. Occasion- 
ally, one of us made a good marriage; but immediately on 
making it the lucky man would either resign from the army 
altogether, or get a transfer to some other regiment. And thus 
we remained the Misers, that is, enduring all the penury of 
the miser, without his substantial gains. 

Let it not be supposed that I spent all my youth in the pur- 
suit of virtue and knowledge. Unluckily, no. But as I know 

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that I can never bring myself to relate exactly all the faults, 
the follies, the rebuffs, the disappointments I suffered, so will 
I pass over them in silence — ^but I had my share — I had my 
share. One, however, I will admit. I was fool enough, and 
found a man willing to co-operate with me in folly, to get in 
debt two thousand francs. When I tell you that I learned to 
like horse-flesh before I paid that money, perhaps it will be 
understood what I suffered. I was very lonely. I was too 
poor to have friends ; even too poor to have enemies. At last 
my debt was paid ; and on the very day that I had got my re- 
lease, and was feeling as happy as a king, I fell into another 
snare, more terrible, more hopeless — I fell in love. 

We were then stationed at St. Quentin. The town is well 
known. I came across an account of it written in 1783, and I 
own that it might be written in this year of 1845 — ^so little 
has it changed— even to the promenades on the grass-grown 
ramparts. It was on a June evening, walking on those green 
ramparts that I met Renee Dufour. She was the daughter of 
the new Commandant, General Dufour. From the first mo- 
ment that Renee's eyes met mine, it was all up with Pierre 

I saw her often. Her father was very kind to me, and so 
was her old aunt, who was supposed to act a mother's part 
toward Renee. And Renee was very, very kind to me. 

I will not attempt to describe her, but I cannot forbear 
mentioning the soft splendor of her eyes and the exquisite 
slenderness of her figure. She was not strictly beautiful — 
I believe the women of over-powering fascinations never are 
— but I will say no more. 

Once there was to be a great military ball. I had not 
thought of going, but Renee asked me to go, and that was 

It was a very magnificent ball. The night was glorious, 
and the moon and stars looked down on a vast illuminated 
place, where fountains played, and music swelled and died, 
and the breath of roses ascended. The coup d'oeil of the ball- 
room wis splendid. At the top of the room stood General 
Dufour, a soldierly man with his breast covered with decora- 
tions — none of your time-of-peace decorations, but all earned 
by hard knocks — ^and at his side stood Renee, smiling and pal- 

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pitating with pleasure. I danced with her once, and afterward 
I fancied her eyes followed me pretty steadily ; but I dismissed 
the thought as one only fit for a vain fool. I stood about, 
scarcely knowing anyone, except my brother officers, who were 
busily engaged. I felt that divine elation with which every 
human soul greets Love, the conqueror. I saw Renee dancing 
with the younger officers, promenading with the older men, 
whom she seemed to bewitch. I had no eyes for anything but 
her. Finding myself close to General Dufour after awhile, 
he turned as if to speak to me. The next moment he seemed 
stricken dumb, uttered a slight groan, put his hand to his head 
and fell forward. I caught him in my arms. His daughter 
must have seen it, for she ran forward. At the first look she 
turned to me and gasped: 

"Get a priest." 

There were plenty of military surgeons at hand in a mo- 
ment. I slipped out, ran to the house of a cure opposite, hauled 
him out of bed, and had him at the door of the ball-room in 
ten minutes. I looked in, and saw at the head of the room 
General Dufour lying on a sofa, his daughter kneeling by him 
on one side, a surgeon on the other. The group was directly 
under the gallery of the musicians, who, mute and awe-stricken 
as the gayly dressed crowd below, sat motionless, holding 
their instruments. There was a slight commotion, and the sur- 
geon said, in a clear voice : 

"He wishes a priest." 

I caught the surgeon's eye at that moment, and opening 
the door wider, he saw the cure about to enter. He whis- 
pered something to the dying man and then to the girl. 
Renee raised her eyes as I advanced slowly, ahead of the cure. 

He carried, wrapped in a veil, the sacred pyx. At the sight 
all present fell on their knees; and from the musicians' gal- 
lery, as if by inspiration, came the celestial thrilling of the 
violins in the Stabat Mater. The strains, ineffably sweet and 
solemn, filled the vast hall, as the cure walked, with bent head, 
toward the dying man. The offices were soon over, and as 
the cure was reading the prayer for the dying, Renee said, 
softly : 

"He is gone." 

She was a soldier's daughter, and she walked bravely and 

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quietly out of the room on the surgeon's arm. I followed her 
without my own volition. There were others with me. The 
General's carriage was drawn up at the bottom of the marble 
stairs. She turned as she reached the head of the stairs, and, 
looking at me, managed to say : 

"I thank you all. I thank the cure and Lieutenant Lievre." 

Never shall I forget the expression of her face, as she stood 
for a moment, the lamplight and the starlight falling upon her 
bare head, in her white gown, with a white mantle dropping 
off her beautiful white neck. 

Next morning a great piece of good fortune befell me. I 
was ordered, with a part of my regiment, to Algiers. I call it 
good fortune, for I could have no peace near Renee Dufour, 
and it was a thousand times better for me to be far away from 
her, where I could neither see her nor hear her name. Before 
I left St. Quentin for good, I wrote her a very respectful note ; 
and after some weeks, when I was at Toulon, I got a reply 
from her. It was brief — ^but just the kind of sweet, sincere 
thing that she might be expected to write. Like a fool, I im- 
agined something in it — a word or two which indicated a con- 
tinuing interest in me ; but I soon saw the folly of such vain 
imaginings. That very night, at mess. General Dufour's death 
being mentioned, Captain Duval-Choisy, a steady, reliable 
fellow, said he supposed that Mademoiselle Dufour's marriage 
with the Marquis de Ravenel would follow soon. He had 
heard on good authority that the Marquis, a handsome, dash- 
ing young man, with nothing against him but a rather hasty 
temper, was always with her now, with the consent of her rela- 
tions. This gave me a great deal of pleasure. What a fitting 
match for her! Youth, love — for she had no fortune — rank 
and wealth. And de Ravenel must be a fine fellow ; a hasty 
temper was nothing. I was in such spirits with this news that 
I ordered champagne, and laughed and talked more gayly than 
ever before in my life. I even tried to sing, and I have no more 
voice than a crow. I took my gayety with me to my quarters, 
and sat up looking at a black and starless sky, and listening 
to a restless night-wind until near daylight, all the time re- 
joicing at Renee's good fortune. What a thing it was for a 
man to be well born and rich ! I was neither. 

It was in May, 1830, that with a part of my regiment — the 

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Misers — I was ordered to embark on board the Diademe, ship 
of the line, at Toulon. There were in round numbers thirty- 
five thousand men engaged in that first great African expedi- 
tion. I remember that everything was done to inspire us with 
enthusiasm, but it was not in the Bourbons to inspire sol- 
diers. And when the poor old Due d'Angouleme came down 
to review us — such a melancholy, cadaverous, croaking, 
tongue-tied, lantern-jawed, megrim-haunted creature never was 
seen — ^the men laughed at him, and the officers swore at him, 
under the rose. It was frightfully depressing when he under- 
took to make us a speech. There was Marshal Marmont — I 
happened to see him in the Due's suite when that speech was 
made — ^and I thought the old soldier would have died of dis- 
gust. The Due told us that none of us would come back, 
advised us to settle our worldly aflFairs, and make our peace 
with Heaven. The men looked quite blue when they were 
marched back to their quarters, and the officers felt bluer still. 
It is a very terrible thing to begin a campaign in bad spirits. 
Soldiers are apt to die when they are in bad spirits. Some of 
us remembered what the Emperor had said concerning the 
Due's wife — she was "the only man in the family" — but we 
dared not speak of this, for any mention of the Emperor al- 
ways affected the army deeply, and the authorities, very prop- 
erly, ordered us to keep silent on the subject of Napoleon. 
The Bourbons were in a bad way with the army after the Revo- 
lution. They might forbid us to talk of Napoleon, but we 
only thought of him the more — and we forced them to bring 
his ashes back to us before many years. 

We were to embark on May i ith, and ten days beforehand 
two of our sub-lieutenants were obliged to be sent to the hos- 
pital—one to have his leg cut off, the other raving with fever. 
Two more had to be drafted into our battalion immediately, 
and one was the Marquis de Ravenel, from a crack lancers regi- 
ment. Although myself only a few grades ahead of him in 
rank, I happened to be the senior officer present when he re- 
ported. The others all had wives and families to say farewell 
to— I, alas ! had no one. 

He was as handsome, as dashing, as ever. How admirably 
would he suit with Renee Duf our ! We had a very pleasant 
conversation, and the next morning, when the battalion was 

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about to be paraded before me, I admired him more than 
ever. The men were drawn up under some trees on the edge 
of the town — we were encamped instead of being in barracks 
— ^and they certainly appeared very well. I was about to com- 
pliment de Ravenel upon the smart appearance of his men, 
when, as he approached, I saw that he was pale with rage — 
he looked as he did that day, so many years before, when I had 
seen him raving with the groom in the high-road. And this is 
what he said to me — his superior officer: 

"So you are the man for whom Renee Dufour refuses to 
marry me. You, a beggar, a vulgarian, fit only to associate 
with her footman." 

He spoke in a low voice, and I, staggered for a moment, 
replied in the same low tone : 

"M. le Marquis, return to your quarters and consider your- 
self under arrest." 

As quick as a flash he raised his sword, and gave me a 
swinging blow over my head with the hilt, and I knew no 
more. I did not know anything for several days. When I 
recovered consciousness I was in a hospital ward, and Duval- 
Choisy was sitting by me. I said to him, with an effort : 
^ "Do you think de Ravenel will be shot?" 

"He is shot already," answered Duval-Choisy, bluntly, 
"and by his own pistol, too — ^that is to say, it is so given out 
— ^but let me tell you, my dear Lievre, although de Ravenel's 
body and the smoking pistol were smuggled out, I have grave 
doubts whether he is not just as much alive as you or I. His 
family are powerful at court, and royalists are not shot now- 
adays — ^there are not enough of them to be rashly disposed of. 
So don't trouble yourself about de Ravenel." 

I found that the general opinion was the same as Duval- 
Choisy's. The offence was so flagrant that it could not be 
passed over; striking an officer is punishable with death, and 
the sentence is generally carried out in our army. De Ravenel's 
family had got to him at once; and before the court-martial 
could be notified, here had come the story of his suicide. There 
were many suspicious circumstances about the prompt removal 
of the body; the military authorities were strangely reticent; 
and I had a hint given me from a high quarter that I need 

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not suffer my mind to be agitated about de Ravenel's tragic 

I recovered rapidly, and was ready to leave with my bat- 
talion, on May nth. I had heard no word of Renee Dufour 
in that time. I had some hours of madness before leaving, 
when I felt like writing her a letter, bidding her farewell, but 
some instinct of manliness stopped me. Even if she were 
insane enough to wish to marry me, her family would be justi- 
fied in preventing it. I had nothing ; I could give her nothing. 
No. The story of her preference for me, which had maddened 
de Ravenel, was mere idle gossip, because I had got the priest 
for her father when she asked me. She had probably never 
thought of me again. 

At last, on a June evening, we sighted Algiers, and next 
morning the debarkation began. Everybody knows what iol- 
lowed. We beat the Algerians and the Kabyles and all the 
other tribesmen in all the pitched battles when they dared to 
face us, but they kept up a harassing guerilla warfare which 
was infuriating. We had to build a chain of block-houses 
along all the territory outside the city of Algiers to protect our 
outposts and the few people who dwelt there. 

The first year or two was exciting enough. Many of us 
got promotion — I got my captaincy — ^but after that, there was 
a time of stagnation. There were troubles in France and the 
troops were withdrawn, leaving only a handful in Africa. I 
had done my share in the campaign, and after that the home- 
sickness which seizes every Frenchman away from France 
seized me. We were quite idle, the authorities being content 
that we should simply hold what we had got — and to be idle 
in Africa, as it was then, was very dreadful. The officers who 
had friends at home got ordered back, but I with a few other 
Misers, remained on the plain around Algiers. 

The men suflfered more, of course, than the officers. From 
some of the best disciplined regiments in France they grew to 
be among the worst. At every departure for France there 
would be an outbreak from those who remained behind. Ex- 
peditions were organized against the Kabyles and Bedouins 
to counteract this and give the men something to talk about — 
but soldiers, unluckily, can think — and when they saw that wc 
could not keep what we took, that we were not numerous 

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enough to make a strong demonstration against the tribesmen, 
that beyond our line of block-houses we were powerless, and, 
above all, the occasional finding of a soldier with his head cut 
off, it was hard upon them. They would talk about the Em- 
peror then; there was no stopping them. For my own part, I 
stood the ordeal fairly well. I tried to put Renee out of my 
head — ^and how well I succeeded may be imagined when I say 
that I never looked at those great, brilliant, golden stars of the 
African nights, which seem so large and so near, without think- 
ing of her, and wondering if she were still alive, and if she 
were married — and this dreamer was a battered, middle-aged 
Captain of the line ! And this lasted for thirteen years. Yes, 
I was thirteen years in Africa. Of course I might have gone 
back to France many times, but, unluckily, I learned Arabic, 
with many of its dialects, very well. It has always been my 
perverse fortune to get in trouble, not through my faults — 
which are numerous enough, and all well grown for their age 
— ^but by my few good qualities. The authorities put me into 
the Bureau arabe. I, a soldier, was made a clerk. In vain I 
swore I would resign, I would leave the army, I would turn 
Mahometan, but it was no use. After my time the officers were 
astute enough never to acknowledge how much Arabic they 
really knew; but I, in an insane moment, had boasted of 
mine, and I had thirteen years in which to repent of it. Al- 
giers in the 30's was a dreary place, half desert, half Paris, 
French, African, the Arab slipper-maker next door to the 
French milliner — a boulevard on the edge of the desert. I 
think I grew morose in the thirteen years when I was a French 
grand-vizier. As chief of the bureau, I had the privilege of 
ordering Arabian heads to be cut off. I did not avail myself 
of the privilege, but sometimes longed rather to cut some other 
heads off. I grew to be "old Lievre" among the young sub- 
lieutenants. I kept away from the quarters where the French 
ladies with their smart gowns were to be found. The ugly 
ones I did not like, and the attractive ones always reminded me 
of Renee ; so I avoided women altogether. 

At last this slavery to a bureau became intolerable. One 
day I determined to be free. I went to head-quarters and an- 
nounced that I would like to be relieved from the Bureau 
arabe. The Commandant smiled, and made out mjr orders at 

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once. I was to proceed to Fort Mastagnan, nearly two hundred 
miles from Algiers, and take command of the little fort, with 
a garrison of — what do you think? One hundred and fifty 

To command a mud fort, two hundred miles in the interior, 
with a garrison of a hundred and fifty rapscallions under 
punishment! Of course the Commandant expected me to 
beg off at once, and to go back to doing a clerk's work in the 
Bureau arabe. But I swore to myself that I would hot go 
back to the Bureau arabe. The Commandant did not urge 
me. He evidently thought that a slight experience of Fort 
Mastagnan would bring me to terms ; so he let me go. With- 
in a week I was ready to start. It was a weary journey. 
My first sight of Mastagnan was not as melancholy as one 
might suppose; for disciplinaires are soldiers after all, and 
have the same childish light-heartedness of other soldiers. It 
was about five o'clock in the afternoon, and although it was 
in the rainy season, the sun shone every day at that hour. 
The fort was perched upon a plateau, with great mountain- 
peaks towering over it, and the sun glinted upon the silvery 
mountain-torrents that foamed down the face of the rocks. 

My ragamuffins were drawn up to receive their new Com- 
mandant, and although not very smart looking — except one 
man who was orderly to the former Commandant — they 
were not very bad looking. The officer whom I was to re- 
lieve recommended his orderly to me. 

"A very sharp fellow — calls himself Laurent — has a life- 
sentence for striking an officer, but I think he expects it to be 
commuted very soon. I can't make him out ; I am afraid he 
is a gentleman ; he writes a better hand than I do, and except 
for his damned superiority in everything, has not a fault.'* 

"I will take him," said I. 

The first time my orderly and I came face to face I saw 
he was the Marquis de Ravenel, and he saw that I was Cap- 
tain Lievre, and each knew the other recognized him. But 
never saw I such coolness and self-possession as Laurent's. 
He had, at last, learned self-control. Not a wink betrayed 
him, and I, scorning to be outdone by my orderly, was as cool 
as he. This, then, explained the mystery. By some sort of 
juggling his family had saved his life, and had got him off 

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to Africa, ostensibly for life. They had probably been work- 
ing all the time for the commutation of his sentence, the resto- 
ration of his civil rights, and he would return to France some- 
thing of a hero, to be rehabilitated with title, money, and 
everything. But suppose the impulse to kill me should come 
upon him? Well, he had plenty of chances. We got on 
from the start — Laurent's face quite inscrutable, while I, 
in a very little while, had trouble to keep from smiling every 
time I saw, or even thought of, the Marquis touching his 
cap to Pierre Lievre, holding my horse, running my errands, 
standing at attention whenever I spoke to him. 

As with my predecessor, he did everything better than I 
did. His accent was Parisian — mine, I am afraid, was not. 
He wrote and spoke half a dozen other languages besides, of 
which I knew not a word. He had made himself a kind of 
mandolin, on which he played charmingly, while he sung airs 
from the operas that had been new thirteen years ago, and he 
was leader of the disciplinaires^ band. Oh, it was a comedy 
to see us together ! I wondered often if he remembered Renee 
Dufour. Alas for me! I had not forgotten her. 

Meanwhile I had been looking closely about me, for the 
Commandant of a fort in the enemy's country, with a garrison 
of disciplinaires, needs to keep his eyes open. The fort had 
good walls, stout and high. On the northern side it was pro- 
tected by an inaccessible precipice. We had one field-piece, 
and plenty of ammunition and provisions. I considered the 
fort practically impregnable, if I had a good garrison. I had 
no doubt they would fight; disciplinaires are generally good 
fighters; but suppose the tribesmen should come, five or six 
thousand strong, as they might, for they had lately begun to 
attack us in vast numbers when they attacked at all. Then, 
if only the morale of the disciplinaires could be kept up — ^but 
there is something overpowering to the rude mind of a pri- 
vate soldier in the thought that he is outnumbered fifty to one, 
even though he be well armed and protected. After consid- 
ering this part of it, I sat down to do what I had always in- 
tended, but had not, until then, set about, and that was, to 
make my will. But when I actually began it, I was troubled 
with two difficulties — I had nothing to leave, and nobody to 
leave it to. So I did not make a will. 

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I am happy to say that I found Fort Mastagnan a great 
improvement on the Bureau arabe. I was as well satisfied as 
ever in my life. True, I had the same old pain at my heart, 
but that I should have had anywhere. And the sight of 
those solemn peaks piercing the clouds, and the vast loneli- 
ness of the hills and valleys around the fort in the mountains, 
was soothing to my soul. 

Some months passed. We often saw bands of Kabyles 
and other tribesmen stealing along the valleys at nightfall, 
the light trampling of their horses' hoofs faintly audible in 
the clear air. Sometimes the morning sun shone on a group 
of dazzling white burnouses disappearing quickly in the gorges 
of the mountains. We had not so far had a single Kabyle 
carbine fired at us, but it was coming. 

One night in December, when the air was sharp, as I sat 
at my supper of barley-broth and mutton — it was mutton, 
mutton, mutton, summer and winter — ^Laurent entered my 
room, and saluting, said, calmly : 

"Sir, the tribesmen are pouring down the mountain-side." 

I seized my field-glass and ran out. There was no moon, 
but the sky was bright with stars, and by their faint, unearthly 
shimmer I could see a cloud of horsemen pouring, as Laurent 
said, out of the great mountain-gorge above us. On they came, 
in myriads. The Arab horses rush noiselessly down the steep- 
est declivities in an indescribable manner; it is more like the 
flight of eagles than the bound of horses. The riders, en- 
veloped in their white burnouses, out of which their black 
eyes gleam like points of flame, looked ghostly, and if I were 
a poet, instead of a plain Captain of the line, I could tell, as 
it should be told, the weirdness, the wildness, the barbaric 
majesty of the sight. It was as if some great serpent of the 
night were unwinding himself, to spring upon that little fort 
on the mountain-side — for as the Arabs came into the plain, 
the vast circle coiled around the fort, and then gave one pro- 
longed savage shriek of hate, and menace and triumph. There 
were not less than eight thousand of them in sight — and we 
were a hundred and fifty. 

Meanwhile my rapscallions were under arms by the tap 
of the drum, and I proceeded to harangue them. 

"It is a movement in force," said I. "Thousands of tribes- 

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men cannot move without the knowledge of our superiors. 
We shall be rescued — be sure of that — ^and meanwhile we must 
take care of ourselves. You know what Arabs do for their 
prisoners. Not always this — " I passed my hand across my 
throat — "that is mercy ; but to be slowly tormented to death, 
to be dragged at the heels of horses, to die of blows and thirst 
and hunger — that is the punishment reserved for French pris- 
oners — and afterward their heads are cut off. Now, my chil- 
dren, let us not die in that manner." 

A shout arose from my fellows at this. 

"However,^said I, "there is small danger of that, for I 
have arranged, if ever the Arabs get over the stockade, to blow 
us all up at the first wink !" 

This they cheered tremendously. 

"And more," said I, "there is a chance for every one of 
you to wipe out everything against you. Gallantry in the face 
of an enemy will condone any crime a soldier may commit. 
Vive Varmie!" 

At this, a great cheer went up. Fear and hope — ^the two 
great mainsprings of human action — had been touched, in- 
stead of a hundred and fifty disciplinaires, I had a hundred 
and fifty heroes. 

And now my awkward pen falters and I can scarcely go 
on. Oh, for the burning words of a Froissart to tell what hap- 
pened when eight thousand Kabyles and Bedouins came surg- 
ing upon us! In the darkness the trampling of their horses' 
feet sounded like thunder. They had each a long, single-bar- 
relled rifle, but they soon found that rifle-balls do not pene- 
trate thick walls. We knew they would attempt to storm the 
place, and when we saw a hundred dark heads over the para- 
pet on the south side, it took not a minute for us to direct all 
our fire at them, while our one gun was dragged across the 
courtyard, and pointed through a hole in the wall. And when 
it barked out, I heard, for the first time, the Arabs shriek with 
pain ; for these followers of the Prophet are great and admir- 
able in agony and death. They suffer and die with majestic 
calmness. But the very suddenness of the assault drew from 
them a yell that smote the black heavens above them. 

All night the disciplinaires fought as I never saw men fight 
before or since — such coolness, such discipline ! 

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All through that first dreadful night Laurent was my aide- 
de-camp as well as my orderly; and when the mountain-tops 
grew rosy in the coming dawn, he was at my side, cool, smil- 
ing, and spick and span as ever. That is the way with the 
thoroughbreds. I am afraid I was frowzy and rather ill-tem- 
pered. About sunrise the Arabs gave us a little peace, and, 
still under arms, we had something to eat. Laurent — ^that is, 
the Marquis de Ravenel — ^brought my coffee and barley-bread 
to me upon a tray with a white napkin. I was a long time eat- 
ing and drinking — all for effect — it nearly choked me. Then 
I ordered the band out — ^we had a pretty good one — and Laur- 
ent, the leader, looked at me meaningly, and I understood and 
nodded back, and it burst into — not Vive Henri Quatre, or any 
of those Bourbon airs, for which soldiers do not care a fig — 
but into La Marseillaise! You should have seen my poor fel- 
lows I They shouted, they wept, they embraced ! — ^they cheered 
me — they cried, "Now, will we hold out I" Oh, it was an in- 
spiration! They were every inch Frenchmen then! All day 
the attack continued intermittently. I was more sure of the 
morale of the men then than before; still I thought J:he day 
with its monotony more dangerous than the night with its ex- 
citement. As the sun sank in beauty — the day had been mild 
and clear — Laurent went and fetched his mandolin, and sitting 
in the middle of the courtyard, sang some of his gay songs, all 
about love and wine, and the men began to laugh and actually 
to dance. I daresay the Arab devils outside thought we were 
crazy, but we were watching them all the same. 

As soon as night fell we again heard the marshalling of 
thousands of horsemen, the trampling of thousands of hoofs, 
that wild, far-reaching scream of thousands of voices. The 
sky became inky black with the clouds that were to pour down 
rain on us; the air grew sharp, and a cold wind from the 
mountains swept down and roared through the gorges, and 
soughed among the branches of the trees. And over all hung 
a pall of dusk and gloom; it was as if the few souls in that 
fort in the African wilderness were the sole human beings in 
the universe. And the sudden rush of thousands of Arabs, 
which came at midnight, the earth trembling as the multitude 
of iron hoofs smote it, seemed rather the assault of demons 
than of men. That night we repelled them, too; every head 

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that appeared over the parapet was shot off. The Arabs rode 
round and round the fort, wheeling as they reached the one 
inaccessible side. This second night the sight of this vast 
wheel of horsemen circling around us, the hoof-beats sounding 
always at the same distance, began to show its effect upon the 
disciplinaires. One of them, a hale, hearty young fellow of 
twenty-four, grew deadly pale and faint as he listened. 1 was 
passing at the time, and afraid to notice him for fear the 
panic would communicate itself to the others. I saw him walk 
unsteadily toward the centre of the courtyard, as if to get a 
better view of the enemy, and suddenly he put his foot upon 
the trigger of his carbine, and the next moment the bullet went 
through his head. He shrieked out twice, "I was afraid! I 
was afraid!" and then breathed no more. 

This first indication of panic was very alarming. Present- 
ly, Laurent, touching his cap, whispered to me, "Captain, may 
I get my mandolin ?" 

I nodded, and in a little while he was sitting under an um- 
brella to keep off the rain, thrumming his mandolin, and sing- 
ing in a rich voice some of the songs from the operas. And he 
kept this up until the dreary dawn of the rainy day came. 
Then it was his turn to do duty, but his singing was having so 
good an effect on the men that I allowed him to continue an 
hour longer. The band then played La Marseillaise, and I 
knew we were safe as long as the inspiration from it lasted. 
I thought as I made my rounds that morning that surely no 
commander was ever placed in a more singular position. Here 
I was, locked up alone with one hundred and fifty criminals. 
We were perfectly safe as long as we thought ourselves to be 
safe; but the instant we doubted our safety, all was up with us. 

In all that time we listened, and hoped, and waited every 
hour for the relief column. The authorities kept a close watch 
on our enemies, and they must soon become acquainted with 
the assembling of so many thousands of them. Yet for seven 
days and nights we endured the agony of waiting. Seven days 
and nights ! Rather did it seem seven months. There was not 
the smallest break in the routine. At last I began to fear that 
the men would give way under this strain of monotony. I was 
convinced that were a few men killed by the enemy, it would 
have been better on the whole. But nothing I can write could 

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give the smallest idea of those seven days and nights of agony, 
before one morning, just at sunrise, we heard the French bu- 
gles. Oh, the rapture of that silver sound ! I think every man 
wept, even Laurent, and in an hour the misery was over. Our 
enemy was flying to the mountains, our comrades were march- 
ing in, grasping our hands, embracing us, and calling us he- 
roes. Some of the heroes, though were so unnerved that they 
lay in heaps upon the ground crying like nervous women. Lau- 
rent, I noticed, was overflowing with joy and happiness. He 
had the nerve to stand joy as well as agony. 

Well, when my hundred and fifty bad fellows marched into 
Algiers, one bright morning, they were received as if they were 
the glory of the French army. Troops lined the way on both 
sides, all the Europeans cheered us, the ladies threw us bou- 
quets and waved their handkerchiefs, and wept and laughed 
—even the Arabs and the Jews looked at us with some inter- 
est. Every man had all his misdeeds wiped out, and every man 
got a medal for gallantry, and every man was drafted into a 
line regiment, except one — Laurent. 

Within an hour of the time we reached Algiers I had for- 
warded Laurent's application for leave; and in another hour it 
was returned, "Granted." 

That night, after he had attended to my wants in his usual 
submissive manner — for he was still my orderly — ^he came up 
to me, and suddenly changing his whole aspect, he said : 

"Adieu, comrade. I have got leave, and I am off to-mor- 
row to — ^never mind where. You have been an excellent mas- 
ter, and I will give you a certificate of character to that effect 
whenever you want it." 

"Thank you, comrade," replied I, offering him my hand, 
which he shook warmly. Next morning Laurent was gone — ^to 
France on a merchant vessel. The Commandant, who knew a 
good deal more than he would admit, made a wretched business 
of an explanation to me, but I knew that Laurent had influ- 
ences at work which would get him to France the instant his 
time was up. No doubt, it was all arranged months before- 
hand. I was made a Commandant, and given the cross of St. 
Louis; and then the resolve came into my mind to return to 
France, and to begin a search for Renee Dufour. 

I reached Paris one afternoon in April, and going to a 

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lodging near the Champs-Elysees, recommended to me by a 
brother officer, engaged a modest apartment, and the very first 
person I met on the stairs when I came home at midnight was 
my old acquaintance Duval-Choisy. He seemed pleased to see 
me, asked me about Mastagnan, and invited me to sit on his 
balcony and smoke before going to bed. 

I thought I had never seen an)rthing so beautiful and bril- 
liant as Paris that spring night. The lights, the cheerful 
crowds on the streets, the merry cafes, and, over all, the 
solemn stars and great, vivid moon that had shone over Mas- 
tagnan. Next us was a splendid hotel lighted from entresol 
to attic ; a ball was going on and we could hear the rhythm of 
the music borne out on the soft night-air of April, and could 
see the dancers whirling past the windows. He watched it in 
silence for some time — I was thinking of that other ball, now 
more than fourteen years ago, and, as always, thinking, think- 
ing of Renee Dufour. But I could not bring myself to ask 
Duval-Choisy about her, although I felt sure he knew. Pres- 
ently he spoke, without looking at me — ^he was always a kind- 
hearted fellow. 

"That hotel belongs to the Marquis de Ravenel; you have 
not forgotten him? Of course, he did not commit suicide. 
His family got him sent to Africa for life, it was said, but as 
soon as the citizen-king came in, they began to work to have 
him pardoned, and they succeeded. He was at Mastagnan; 
did you recognize him?" 

"Yes," I replied. 

"Of course, that wiped out everything. His family made 
a hero of him ; his mother bought this hotel for him, and he 
married Mademoiselle Dufour at last." 

The music rose and fell as before, but the air of the melod- 
ious waltz seemed to me to blend strangely into the strain of 
the Stabat Mater that I had heard played at that other ball so 
long ago. 

I said not a word. Duval-Choisy continued, after a little 
while : 

"I have heard that Renee Dufour remained unmarried all 
those years, not for the sake of de Ravenel, but for some other 
man — ^someone who had been kind to her at the time of her 
father's death — there was a mysterious reason for her con- 

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duct. She rewarded de Ravenel's constancy in the end, but I 
do not think she has the air of a happy woman." 

The ball was still going on, but at that moment a woman 
dressed in white, with diamonds flashing all over her, came out 
on a little balcony directly opposite ours. She raised her face, 
and the moonlight fell upon it. How sad it wasl And it was 
the face of Renee de RaveneL 

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WHEN a boy of seventeen Raphael Semmes was a midshipman 
in the United States Navy. The habits of discipline he formed 
then adapted him to a career of adventure and exploit. He was made 
immune to exposure, and nature had endowed him with great courage 
and a rare moral poise. In time of real peril he invariably rose to 
the heroic ideal. 

His parents having died in his youth, he was welcomed to the 
home of his uncle, Raphael Semmes, in Georgetown, D.C., where he 
was reared by his aunt, Mrs. Matilda Semmes, with the same fidelity 
and prudence that she bestowed upon her own thirteen children, 
among whom was the late Thomas J. Semmes of New Orleans, one 
of the Committee of Fifteen who drafted the Ordinance of Secession; 
a member of the Confederate Senate, and for a generation ranking 
as the first lawyer of Louisiana. In those days Georgetown was the 
"Court End" of Washington, and the Semmes home was the scene 
of much pleasant hospitality. Mrs. Semmes, who possessed gracious 
manners, a brilliant mind, and withal a militant, patriotic, and relig- 
ious spirit, entertained and met at social functions many of the 
prominent persons there who figured in the military, naval, and politi- 
cal circles of the National capital. She knew personally every 
President from Monroe to Lincoln, also Webster, Marshall, Taney, 
Clay, and Calhoun, while Jefferson Davis, Prentiss, Toombs, Alex- 
ander Stephens, the Lees, the Maurys, McBlairs, Sinclairs, Buchanans, 
Masons, Yanceys, Garlands, John Slidell, Bayard, Pinckney, Wirt, 
and others who achieved fame in the Civil War, were the contem- 
poraries, and many of them the companions, of her sons and daugh- 
ters. In this atmosphere of extraordinary culture and this school of 
courage, honor, and patriotism, was molded the character of Raphael 
Semmes, his imagination enriched and his literary taste nourished. 

A native of Maryland, he drew his sword in defence of his State 
and his people with the same self-sacrifice and high purpose that 
marked the course of General Lee and other Confederate leaders 
who fought under the old flag. Semmes was a versatile man, whose 
attainments were as solid as they were varied. He was not only 
versed in seamanship, and all the practical points of marine con- 

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struction, mechanics, and supplies, but a master of international law, 
a sagacious judge of men and events, and a polished scholar who 
could express himself with force, dignity, and grace, whether on the 
rostrum, with his pen, or in informal conversation. An impressive 
trait in his nature, for a man otherwise so engrossed, was a sincere 
and profound religious conviction, which he never paraded, but 
revealed both in his personal example and his loyal devotion to his 
church. This was strikingly illustrated on the morning of the battle 
with the Kearsarge, when he entered the little Catholic chapel at 
Cherbourg and received the sacraments with all the humility and 
zeal of the simple French peasant- folk among whom he knelt. He 
then wrote his will, addressed a touching letter to his wife and 
children in America, and prepared his ship for action. 

Although a martinet in the hour of authority and duty, he had a 
fine emotional temperament and personal magnetism that bound his 
men to him with "hooks of steel." They not only obeyed his com- 
mands with enthusiasm, but loved and admired their commander 
with almost filial devotion. He in turn entertained genuine affec- 
tion for his officers and crew, as is disclosed in his description of 
the spectacle on the Alabama when sinking: "When I looked," he 
wrote, "upon my gory deck at the close of the action and saw so 
many manly forms stretched upon it with the glazed eye of death 
or suffering from agonizing wounds, I felt as a father feels who 
has lost his children — his children who had followed him in sun- 
shine and storm to the uttermost ends of the earth, and been always 
true to him." Semmes idolized his ship, and carried a sentiment 
in his heart for the beautiful craft which, as he declared, "was both 
my battlefield and home for two long years of vicissitudes." 

In his pen picture of the Alabama, he reveals true literary skill. 
He begins with a fascinating description of her lines and pose^ in- 
vesting her with romantic interest. He then depicts in technical yet 
graphic diction how she was built, equipped, and manned. 

When the battle-ships of to-day, with all the majesty and power 
of their lines, the destructive force of their armaments, their in- 
herent capacity of resistance and marvelous flight of speed, are 
compared to the primitive, frail, and airy architecture of a vessel 
like the Alabama, the chronicles of her cruise read like fiction. Lieu- 
tenants Mcintosh Kell and Arthur Sinclair, Master J. S. Bullock, 
and others of her official family, have pictured this will-o'-the-wisp 
of the ocean as "a thing of beauty," fashioned with grace, and as 
captivating when under full sail chasing the enemy as some phan- 
tom enchantress ! But Semmes's nautical eye knew her as no other, 
and to readers of the present generation the Admiral's description 
of the historic vessel will show a striking contrast to the modem 

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battle-ship. In his 'Memoirs of Service Afloat' he wrote: "When 
her awnings were snugly spread, her yards squared, and her rigging 
hauled taut, she looked like a bride with the orange wreath about 
her brow ready to be led to the altar. She was 900 tons burden, 
230 feet long, 32 broad, 20 deep and drew when provisioned and 
coaled for a cruise 15 feet of water. Her model was of the most 
perfect symmetry, and she sat upon the water with the lightness and 
grace of a swan. She was barkentine rigged, with long lower masts, 
which enabled her to carry large fore and aft sails as jibs and try- 
sails, which are of so much importance to a steamer in emer- 
gencies. Her sticks were of the best yellow pine, that would bend 
in a gale like a willow wand, without breaking, and her rigging 
was of the best Swedish iron wire. Her scantling was light. Her 
engine was of 300 horse-power, and she had attached an apparatus 
for condensing from the vapor of the sea all the fresh water her 
crew might require. She was a perfect steamer and a perfect sail- 
ing ship, at the same time, neither of her modes of locomotion being 
at all dependent upon the other. Ordinarily she was a lo-knot ship, 
her speed having been overrated by the enemy, but she could make 
^SH knots under both steam and sail. Her armament consisted of 
eight guns, six 32-pounders in broadside, and two pivot guns amid- 
ship; one on the forecastle, the other abaft the main mast — ^the 
former a loo-pounder rifled Blakley and the latter a smooth-bore 
8-inch. Her average crew before the mast consisted of 120 men. 
She carried 24 officers and cost $250,000." 

Semmes was a comprehensive observer who enjoyed true com- 
radeship with nature and with men. He not only saw with the 
vision of a trained seaman, but he looked at the panorama of life 
with the eyes of a scholar and the reason of a philosopher. He 
knew every tint of the firmament and every mood of the sea. The 
glory of an ocean sunrise, the radiance of the evening sky, the 
mystery of twilight, the tranquil charm of "a calm," the majesty 
and tumult of a storm — all appealed to his well-ordered mind, whether 
in contemplation or in the throes of action. This enthusiasm over 
the sublimity of the elements, the vigilance with which he studied 
his crew, his observations of the customs, habits, and institutions 
that prevailed at the strange ports where he touched, together with 
the introspection of the man himself, whose horizon for months at 
a time knew no limit, find faithful expression in his military memoirs 
— a literary form of which he was a master. 

As human nature is oftenest governed by impulse, and as the 
function of the historian, according to the best critics, is to analyze 
and expose the motives that actuate men of a certain period, to 
fathom the undercurrent of affairs, Admiral Semmes's books are 

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something more than entertaining narratives of the Mexican and 
Civil wars; they have, indeed, the value of a classic as showing the 
temper, patriotism, and statesmanship of those times. In treating 
of the fanaticism that prevailed, and the injustice shown toward the 
South during the reconstruction period, he brings into play powers 
of invective and satire whose poignancy will be felt as long as there 
remains a hostile memory of the breach between the sections. 

In his manly and logical appeal to President Johnson, in a private 
letter to his brother when in prison at Washington awaiting trial 
for treason, and all through his 'Memoirs,' he not only vindicates 
his own course, but proves a superb fencer with his pen when deal- 
ing with the doctrine of States' Rights. In his first production, 
published in 1852, The Campaign of General Scott in the Valley of 
Mexico,' his style is marked by that felicity and faculty for observ- 
ing details which impart so much charm to the 'Diary of Sir John 
Evelyn.' His high culture, fine appreciation of art, and his sense of 
the social amenities of life, are patent in his critical comment on 
paintings by the masters in the galleries at Puebla; then the pretium 
affeciionis he attaches to rare books in the libraries; his impressive 
description of church festivals; the gaiety and color with which he 
pictures the amusements of the people, their costumes, and the native 
charm, vivacity, and coquetry of the Mexican women. But the 
author is at his best in his 'Memoirs of Service Afloat,' which 
abounds with forensic flights that are models of style; as, for ex- 
ample, his address* just before the duel between the Alabama and 
the Kearsarge. 

This address proved to be Admiral Semmes's valedictory, and 
although he lost both the victory and his ship, it stirs the pulse of 
patriotism after a lapse of nearly half a century, and forms a part 
of the history and literature of the South. 

(Sc/^^U^ i/? >^ 


*See page 4763. 

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From 'The Campaign of General Scott in Mexico.' 

The night of the 24th was a beautiful star-light night — as 
well as I remember, there was no moon — and the relief party, 
for the navy battery, reached its station — after running the 
gauntlet of the enemy's fire, on a portion of the route — a little 
before sunset. We bivouacked our men in a clump of bushes 
on the southern, or off-slope, of the sand-hill, on the brow of 
which the battery was placed ; cooked an excellent supper, with 
plenty of hot coffee ; smoked a cigar, and went to bed ; that is 
to say, each one of us made a hole in the sand, to conform to 
the angularity of his figure, and pulled a blanket over his head. 
Meanwhile the engineers, with relief working parties, were 
busy with the repair of our defenses, which had been ren- 
dered almost untenable, and a detachment of volunteers kept 
guard while we slept. Although our position sheltered us 
from the direct fire of the enemy, which indeed has ceased 
since night set in, yet an occasional shell, thrown at random in 
our direction, exploded in fearful proximity to us. The novel- 
ty of my position, and the excitement of the scene around me 
— the engineers working away at our sand-bags, like so many 
specters, by the starlight, the sentinel, at a little distance, pac- 
ing his solitary round, and the sailors collected in small groups, 
discoursing, sotto voce, but not so sotto either, but that every 
now and then, a "d — n my eyes" could be heard — prevented me 
from sleeping. Perhaps, after all, a little sensation of ner- 
vousness, occasioned by the thought of being set up, on the 
morrow, to be shot at by three batteries, had more to do with 
my wakefulness, than at the time I was willing to confess to 
myself. In the early part of the night, the walls of the city 
abreast of us, and on our right, were brilliantly illuminated by 
the burning of some sheds and other buildings in the suburbs ; 
no doubt, fired by the Mexicans themselves, to unmask new 
pieces, which they were placing in position, to oppose us. 
About midnight I wandered to a small eminence, in the neigh- 
borhood of our battery, to look forth upon the scene. It was 
perfectly calm. The fleet at Sacrificios was just visible through 
the gloom, and was sleeping quietly at its anchors, without 

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other sign of life, than a soHtary Hght burning at the gaff-end 
of the commodore. The castle of San Juan de Ulloa, magni- 
fied out of all proportion by the uncertain twilight, and looking 
ten times more somber and defiant than ever, appeared to en- 
joy equal repose. Even the sea seemed to have gone to sleep, 
after the turmoil of the recent norther, as the only sound that 
reached the ear, from that direction, was a faint, very faint 
murmur, hoarse and plaintive, as the lazy swell, with scarcely 
energy enough to break, stranded itself on the beach. The 
cricket and the katydid, and myriads of other insects — the 
south is the land of insects — chirruped in a sort of inharmon- 
ious melody, reminding one of his far-off home and of fire- 
side scenes. But if nature was thus inclined to repose, man 
was not, for Death still held his carnival within the walls of 
the beleaguered city. Those horrid mortars of ours were in 
"awful activity." The demons incarnate, all begrimed with 
powder and smoke, who served them at this midnight hour, 
having received a fresh supply of shells and ammunition, since 
the lull of the norther, seemed to redouble their energies, to 
make up for their lazy day's work of yesterday. They gave 
the doomed city no respite, not even for a single moment, as 
the air was never without its tenant, winging its way on its 
errand of death. I sat and watched these missiles for an hour 
or more, and I shall never forget the awful scream, appar- 
ently proceeding from several female voices, which came ring- 
ing on the night air, as one of those terrible engines of de- 
struction exploded — carrying death and dismay, no doubt, to 
some family circle. No sight could have been more solemn 
and impressive — the imagination dwelling all the while on the 
awful tragedy which was being enacted — ^than the flight of 
those missiles through the air. The night was just dark 
enough to admit of their burning fuses being seen, as they 
traced those beautiful parabolas, peculiar to this kind of pro- 
jectile. And then, the awful precision with which they would 
explode, called forth my constant admiration. They seemed 
to be hid but a single second or less, behind the dark curtain 
of the city walls, before the terrible explosion — reverberated 
and magnified, as it passed through the streets, by the walls 
of the houses — would almost stun the ear — I was only seven 
hundred yards off, and the humidity of the atmosphere was 

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highly favorable to the passage of sound. Occasionally, sev- 
eral would be in the air at the same time — I counted as high 
as five on one occasion — chasing each other like playful me- 
teors, and exploding in quick succession like a feu de joie. We 
were astir, the next morning, at early daylight — our boat- 
swain's mate having aroused all hands, in man-of-war fashion, 
with a shrill note from his "call" — silver whistle — and a voice 
resembling the growl of a grizzly bear. By sunrise, we were 
at our work ; the seamen handling their long 32s and 68s like 
toys, and the officers delivering their fire in quick succession, 
and in the right place. The enemy was not long in replying to 
us. The same three batteries that had handled Captain Aulick 
so roughly yesterday, concentrated upon us again to-day, ap- 
parently with renewed energy. In addition to this, the castle, 
which by this time had discovered the true point of attack, 
began to throw a monster shell at us, at intervals. We had 
constant occasion to admire the spirit and accuracy, with which 
the Mexican artillerists handled their pieces. Their shot, which 
were much lighter than ours, came whistling just over our 
heads, or buried themselves in the sand-bags, at the muzzles 
of our guns, with a spiteful and sullen sound, as if in a rage 
of disappointment at not being able to reach us. Now and 
then, one would come whizzing through the embrasures, tak- 
ing off some poor fellow's head, or having spent itself on the 
parapet outside, come hopping in lightly on the platform, where 
we were working the guns. We collected several of these, 
and sent them back again — two at a time to the enemy, with 
our compliments. At heavy artillery exercise, the Mexicans are 
perhaps our equals — ^their practice is very constant — but they 
fall far short of us, in the management of light pieces in the 
field. It so happened that the two navies were opposed to each 
other, on this occasion ; the little battery, immediately in front 
of us, and the hottest and most efficient of the three, being 
commanded by Lieutenant Holsinger, an intelligent young Ger- 
man, who had been several years in the Mexican service. We, 
of the Raritan — Captain Forrest being represented by a thirty- 
two — paid our particular respects to this gentleman. Our 
piece fired with the accuracy of a rifle, as did all the solid-shot 
guns, and we were consequently enabled to pitch our heavy 
metal "right into him." We shot away his colors twice, which 

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the gallant fellow as often replaced, though we must have been 
riddling his slight redoubt, and slaying his seamen at every dis- 
charge. About seven o'clock, in the day, the army battery. No. 
4 — twenty-four pounders — opened its fire and rendered us 
friendly assistance, by diverting the attention of Fort Santi- 
ago — though this fort being more distant than the other two, 
had done us but little damage. The mortars continuing, too, 
to throw their shells with spirit, the whole constituted that 
"awful activity" described by the general-in-chief, in his dis- 


From 'The Campaign of General Scott in Mexico.' 

We were again in motion at eight o'clock the next morn- 
ing. It had snowed, during the night, on the top of the Ma- 
linche, at the base of which is situated Acajete, and a keen 
north-wind rendered the weather quite cold — so much so, that 
we wrapped ourselves, at starting, in our overcoats and sc- 
rapes. As we rose a slight eminence, soon after leaving Aca- 
jete, the splendid view of the volcanoes of Puebla burst upon 
us, and after the first exclamations of surprise and admiration 
had passed, we rode along for some time in silence, absorbed 
by the grandeur of the spectacle. Ahead of us, rose the ma- 
jestic Popocatapetl, to the height of 17,700 feet above the level 
of the sea; and a little to the right, Istaccihuatl to the height 
of 15,700; the former presenting the appearance of a regular 
cone, with some two thousand feet from its summit down- 
ward, covered with snow, and the latter, a nearly horizontal 
serrated ridge, on which the snow lay fantastically piled, like 
so many fleecy clouds. The rays of the morning sun gave a 
brilliant and dazzling effect to those snow-crested peaks of the 
Andes, and the nearer landscape was exceedingly picturesque; 
an extensive valley running away many leagues to the left, be- 
tween receding mountains, well cultivated in maize and barley, 
and broken by occasional patches of woodland. The barley — 
it was now the 28th of May — was just beginning to indicate by 
its golden hue, its fitness for the sickle. On our right, the 
country was more uneven in surface, and was cut up into small 
fields by hedges of maguey. 


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A ride of two hours and a half brought us to the thrifty 
little manufacturing town of Amosoque, which contained 
about two thousand inhabitants, and was the largest village we 
had passed through since leaving Perote. It is celebrated, more 
than any other locality in Mexico, for its manufacture of 
spurs ; and most of us availed ourselves of the opportunity of 
arming our heels anew with this knightly appendage. They 
are made entirely by hand, without the aid of other than the 
most simple machinery, and some of them were very fair speci- 
mens of art, being fancifully and ingeniously inlaid with gold 
and silver. The rowels were enormously large, some of them 
measuring an inch and a half in diameter. I am not sure but 
Seymour's, who began now to ape the air of a dragoon, and 
who had picked out the largest pair he could find, measured 
even more. We spent the hour we halted here very agreeably, 
in wandering through the different spur and saddle manufac- 
tories, and in inspecting, in company with the general and the 
padre, the principal church. 

In the yard of this neat and well-kept building, were sev- 
eral magnificent yew trees, which grew to a great height and 
attracted our attention by being covered with a beautiful 
creeper filled with scarlet flowers, called the yedra; the two 
thus formed a living cone of green and red in striking con- 
trast. The interior of the edifice was rich in paintings — ^many 
oi them of merit — ^and in ornaments of gold and silver; and 
the padre took evident pride in showing us through its various 
parts, and pointing out to us the objects of most interest. . . 
The inhabitants of Amosoque received us with some- 
thing like cordiality — ^probably due to General Worth's popu- 
lar rule in Puebla, only ten miles distant, and which he had 
occupied two weeks before — paying General Scott, in particu- 
lar, marked respect, as he passed through the streets, and not 
unfrequently stopping to gaze with evident admiration upon 
his large and commanding figure. 

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From 'The Campaign of General Scott in Mexico.' 

In company with a messmate and two or three other officers 
of the army, I visited, by appointment, the palace of the bishop. 
It is an immense quadrangle, covering nearly an entire square, 
and inclosing three large patios, in one of which were choice 
specimens of fruits and flowers. We here again saw the splen- 
did creeper called the yedra, with which we had been so much 
struck at Amosoque. It had climbed a tall pine, which it has 
so completely covered in every part, as not to leave a single leaf 
of the tree visible; and formed, as before, a living cone of the 
deepest green, dotted profusely with tiny scarlet flowers. 
Having entered the gateway of the principal patio, we ascended 
to the second story of the building, by a flight of wide stone 
steps, over one of the landings of which hung a painting most 
appropriate to adorn the threshold of a bishop's palace. It 
was the Virgin Mother and infant Saviour — the latter feeding 
a flock of sheep; thus admonishing the holy father, as often 
as he went forth into the world, of his duty to "feed his flock." 
Reaching the portales, or corridor of the second story, encir- 
cling the patio of the building, in which were hung also sev- 
eral paintings of a religious character (and but indifferent 
execution, as the reader might suppose, from the exposed 
situation in which we found them), we were led through a 
room in which there was a specimen of the famous Gobelin 
tapestry; thence through another, containing the portraits of 
the bishops, before noticed, and finally into a suite of other 
rooms, where, to our astonishment and surprise, we found one 
of the largest and best collections of pictures in America. 
There were, save a piece or two by Murillo, one by Rubens, 
and one by Rafael, no originals of the great masters, but 
many copies which did no discredit to their famous pencils. 
We spent two hours in passing through these rooms, and had 
barely time to give a passing glance of admiration to the most 
celebrated pieces. The pictures, though generally of a re- 
ligious caste, were not entirely so. We noticed several of 
quite a mundane character, as the exit of the three Graces 
from the bath ; one of the nymphs playfully holding a mirror. 


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to the others, and all in such glorious deshabille, as would 
suffice, one would think, to quicken the lazy current of life 
in the veins even of an old bishop. There was a Magdalen, 
too, in which the lascivious, voluptuous woman was but im- 
perfectly hid in the upturned eyes of the saint; and if two little 
cherubs, that looked as much like cupids as cherubs, present- 
ing her with a wreath of flowers, had been blotted from the 
picture, one's imagination, instead of soaring aloft to heaven, 
would have been forcibly called down to earth. The coloring 
— save that the hair, as it flowed in graceful profusion over the 
breast and arms, was scarcely dark enough to form a sufficient 
contrast — was most exquisite, and the attitude, one of perfect 
ease and grace. Our guides — the bishop himself, being absent 
at his country-seat — not being connoisseurs, could not tell us 
by what pencil this gem of the arts had been produced. 

Indeed, this was the case with regard to most of the splen- 
did paintings in the rooms, and having no catalogue to assist 
us, we were obliged to depend upon our own recollections of 
the subjects of the pieces, and the uncertain lights of style, of 
coloring, and composition of the various masters, for a knowl- 
edge of their respective works. There were two Fomarinas 
in the collection, one said to be an original by Rafael, and 
the other a copy. They were both very fine, and the original 
so perfect a conception of a beautiful Italian face, that one 
felt half disposed to fall in love with it, himself. The adora- 
tion of the infant Saviour by the wise men of the east, by 
Rubens, was perfect in the grouping of its figures; the ex- 
pression of awe and humility depicted in the faces of the 
worshipers ; and the rich coloring for which this great master 
is so celebrated. Having but little of the enthusiasm of the 
artist, although I am fond of good pictures, and none of the 
jargon of the professional critic, I will not weary the reader 
with a detailed description, or even an enumeration of the 
several pieces, good, bad, and indifferent, which we alternately 
inspected, I will mention but one other which chained the 
attention of us all, and to which we, nem. con., awarded the 
tribute of our admiration. It was evidently the production 
of some great master of the French school ; but of whom, we 
could not learn. The subject was the sick child ; and in point 
of conception, coloring and execution, it was most perfect. It 

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represented the little sufferer sitting on the lap of its mother, 
in the most natural attitude imaginable, with its head droop- 
ing, with half -closed eyes, upon its breast, in all the languor 
and lassitude of disease-:-its wasted arms hanging listlessly 
by its side, and the pallor of death in its beautiful features. 
But the expression of deep anguish and anxiety depicted in 
the mother's face, and the tearfulness of her eye, as she looked 
up to a picture of the Virgin in prayer, while the physician 
was feeling the pulse of the little sufferer, and seemingly medi- 
tating on the remedies to be applied, struck us as the triumph 
of art, indeed. 

From the picture-gallery we passed into the library, com- 
posed of about fifty thousand volumes, as we were informed, 
and distributed in three several suites of rooms. The books 
were neatly packed in cedar cases (which spread an agreeable 
odor through the apartments), and were, as one might sup- 
pose, chiefly of a religious character; though history, law, 
medicine, the exact sciences, and the belles-lettres claimed their 
share. All the old fathers of the church were there, in the 
dead languages, in which they respectively wrote, looking 
learned and forbidding in their parchment bindings, and bra- 
zen clasps; all the polemics of the Italian school, and indeed 
everything which could throw a ray of light upon the origin 
and progress of the Christian religion. The literature of 
these rooms was not all "black letter," however. There were 
volumes here, to which the tired ecclesiastic might resort, after 
a night's vigil over the ponderous tomes of the fathers, for 
cheerful amusement. I noticed, among the rest, a superb 
edition of 'Don Quixote,' with plates, such as to look upon 
was to laugh. They showed us, here, among other curious 
and rare volumes, a fine old edition of the Bible, published in 
polyglot, in London, by Thomas Roycroft, A.D., 1657. The 
text is arranged in parallel columns of Hebrew, Chaldaic, and 
Greek, and is compared with early translations in Samaritan, 
Greek, Chaldaic, Syriac, Arabic, Ethiopic, Persian, and the 
Latin vulgate. Elaborate and voluminous dictionaries and 
grammars of the Aztec tongue, and other cognate Indian 
languages — works of the untiring and zealous old ecclesiastics 
who followed close upon the heels of the conquest — were also 
shown us. While the learned old priests were unlocking all 

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these various stores of erudition for our inspection, we, of 
course, looked wise, and like wise men, held our peace — limit- 
ing ourselves to venturing, now and then, upon a half -for- 
gotten classical allusion, as we chanced to recall some of the 
shreds and patches of our college learning. In this man- 
ner we passed, no doubt, quite creditably — considering that 
we were barbarians swarming fresh from our northern hive 
of land-robbers — through the musty ordeal of the salas of the 
library; and I fancied, after breathing such an atmosphere, 
that I felt quite learned myself, until I emerged from the 
twilight into the open streets, and the glare of the sun, and the 
bustle of the busy multitude dispelled the illusion. Our visit 
to the bishop's palace will long remain upon my mind as a 
pleasant reminiscence. My only regret is that I did not see the 
venerable old prelate himself, as he was spoken of as one of 
the sahios, or wise men of Mexico. He was represented, how- 
ever, by a very clever and agreeable priest, one of the pro- 
fessors in the adjoining college. We did not visit this latter 
building, but were informed it contained five hundred schol- 
ars — day scholars included. What a babel of confusion must 
have been here, in the hours of study! The most noisy of all 
schools in the world is a Mexican school, where it seems to be 
a part of the routine for each scholar to sing in a sort of 
nasal undertone, his lesson, pretty much after the fashion he 
is taught to love his Maker, viz : "With all his might, with all 
his soul, and with all his strength." 


From * Memoirs of Service Afloat.* 

In the way of crew, the Kearsar'ge had 162, all told — ^the 
Alabama, 149. I had communicated my intention to fight this 
battle to Flag-Officer Barron, my senior officer in Paris, a 
few days before, and that officer had generously left the mat- 
ter to my own discretion. I completed my preparations on 
Saturday evening, the i8th of June, and notified the Port- 
Admiral of my intention to go out on the following morning. 
The next day dawned beautiful and bright. The cloudy, 
murky weather of some days past had cleared off, and a bright 

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sun, a gentle breeze, and a smooth sea, were to be the con- 
comitants of the battle. Whilst I was still in my cot, the 
Admiral sent an officer off to say to me that the iron-clad frig- 
ate Couronne would accompany me a part of the way out, to 
see that the neutrality of French waters was not violated. My 
crew had turned in early, and gotten a good night's rest, and 
I permitted them to get their breakfasts comfortably — ^not 
turning them to until nine o'clock — before any movement was 
made toward getting under way, beyond lighting the fires in 
the furnaces. I ought to mention that Midshipman Sinclair, 
the son of Captain Terry Sinclair, of the Confederate Navy, 
whom I had sent with Low, as his first lieutenant in the 
Tuscaloosa, being in Paris when we arrived, had come down 
on the eve of the engagement — ^accompanied by his father — 
and endeavored to rejoin me, but was prevented by the 
French authorities. It is opportune also to state, that in view 
of possible contingencies, I had directed Gait, my acting pay- 
master, to send on shore for safe-keeping, the funds of the 
ship, and complete pay-rolls of the crew, showing the state 
of the account of each officer and man. 

The day being Sunday, and the weather fine, a large . 
concourse of people — many having come all the way from 
Paris — collected on the heights above the town, in the upper 
stories of such of the houses as commanded a view of the 
sea, and on the walls and fortifications of the harbor. Several 
French luggers employed as pilot-boats went out, and also 
an English steam-yacht, called the Deerhound, Everything 
being in readiness between nine and ten o'clock, we got under 
way, and proceeded to sea, through the western entrance of 
the harbor ; the Couronne following us. As we emerged from 
behind the mole, we discovered the Kearsarge at a distance of 
between six and seven miles from the land. She had been 
apprised of our intention of coming out that morning, and was 
awaiting us. The Couronne anchored a short distance outside 
of the harbor. We were three-quarters of an hour in run- 
ning out to the Kearsarge, during which time we had gotten 
our people to quarters, cast loose the battery, and made all 
other necessary preparations for battle. The yards had been 
previously slung in chains, stoppers prepared for the rigging, 
and preventer braces rove. It only remained to open the 

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magazine and shell rooms, sand down the decks, and fill the 
requisite number of tubs with water. The crew had been 
particularly neat in their dress on that morning, and the 
officers were all in the uniforms appropriate to their rank. As 
we were approaching the enemy's ship, I caused the crew 
to be sent aft, within convenient reach of my voice, and mount- 
ing a gun-carriage, delivered them the following brief ad- 
dress. I had not spoken to them in this formal way since I 
had addressed them on the memorable occasion of commis- 
sioning the ship. 

"Officers and Seamen of the Alabama! — ^You have at 
length, another opportunity of meeting the enemy — the first 
that has been presented to you, since you sank the Halt eras! 
In the meantime you have been all over the world, and it is 
not too much to say, that you have destroyed, and driven 
for protection under neutral flags, one half of the enemy's 
commerce, which, at the beginning of the war, covered every 
sea. This is an achievement of which you may well be proud ; 
and a grateful country will not be unmindful of it. The name 
of your ship has become a household word wherever civiliza- 
tion extends. Shall that name be tarnished by defeat? The 
thing is impossible! Remember that you are in the English 
Channel, the theatre of so much of the naval glory of our 
race, and that the eyes of all Europe are at this moment upon 
you. The flag that floats over you is that of a young Re- 
public, who bids defiance to her enemies, whenever, and wher- 
ever found. Show the world that you know how to uphold it ! 
Go to your quarters." 

The utmost silence prevailed during the delivery of this 
address broken only once, in an enthusiastic outburst of Never! 
never! when I asked my sailors if they would permit the name 
of their ship to be tarnished by defeat. My official report of 
the engagement, addressed to Flag-Officer Barron, in Paris, 
will describe What now took place. It was written in South- 
ampton, England, two days after the battle. 

Southampton, June 21, 1864. 
Sir: — ^I have the honor to inform you, that, in accordance with 
my intention as previously announced to you, I steamed out of the 
harbor of Cherbourg between nine and ten o'clock on the morn- 

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ing of the 19th of June, for the purpose of engaging the enemy's 
steamer Kearsarge, which had been lying off, and on the port, for 
several days previously. After clearing the harbor, we descried 
the enemy, with his head off shore, at the distance of about seven 
miles. We were three-quarters of an hour in coming up with him. 
I had previously pivoted my guns to starboard, and made all prepa- 
rations for engaging the enemy on that side. When within about a 
mile and a quarter of the enemy, he suddenly wheeled, and, bringing 
his head in shore, presented his starboard battery to me. By this 
time, we were distant about one mile from each other, when I 
opened on him with solid shot, to which he replied in a few minutes, 
and the action became active on both sides. The enemy now pressed 
his ship under a full head of steam, and to prevent our passing each 
other too speedily, and to keep our respective broad-sides bearing, 
it became necessary to fight in a circle ; the two ships steaming around 
a common centre, and preserving a distance from each other of 
from three quarters to a half a mile. When we got within good 
shell range, we opened upon him with shell. Some ten or fifteen 
minutes after the commencement of the action our spanker-gaff 
was now shot away, and our ensign came down by the run. This 
was immediately replaced by another at the mizzen-mast-head. The 
firing now became very hot, and the enemy's shot and shell soon 
began to tell upon our hull, knocking down, killing, and disabling 
a number of men, at the same time, in different parts of the ship. 
Perceiving that our shell, though apparently exploding against the 
enemy's sides, were doing him but little damage, I returned to solid- 
shot firing, and from this time onward alternated with shot and 

After the lapse of about one hour and ten minutes, our ship was 
ascertained to be in sinking condition, the enemy's shell having 
exploded in our side, and between decks, opening large apertures 
through which the water rushed with great rapidity. For some few 
minutes I had hopes of being able to reach the French coast, for 
which purpose I gave the ship all steam, and set such of the fore- 
and-aft sails as were available. The ship filled so rapidly, however, 
that before we had much more progress, the fires were extinguished 
in the furnaces, and we were evidently on the point of sinking. I 
now hauled down my colors, to prevent the further destruction of 
life, and dispatched a boat to inform the enemy of our condition. 
Although we were now but 400 yards from each other, the enemy 
fired upon me five times after my colors had been struck. It is 
charitable to suppose that a ship of war of a Christian nation could 
not have done this, intentionally. We now directed all our exertions 
toward saving the wounded, and such of the boys of the ship as were 

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unable to swim. They were dispatched in my quarter-boats, the only 
boats remaining to me; the waist-boats having been torn to pieces. 
Some twenty minutes after my furnace-fires had been extinguished, 
and when the ship was on the point of settling, every man, in obedi- 
ence to a previous order which had been given the crew, jumped 
overboard, and endeavored to save himself. There was no appear- 
ance of any boat coming to me from the enemy, until after my ship 
went down. Fortunately, however, the steam-yacht Deerhound, 
owned by a gentleman of Lancashire, England — Mr. John Lancas- 
ter — ^who was himself on board, steamed up in the midst of my 
drowning men, and rescued a number of both officers and men from 
the water, I was fortunate enough myself thus to escape to the shel- 
ter of the neutral flag, together with about forty others, all told. 
About this time, the Kearsarge sent one, and then tardily, another 
boat. Accompanying, you will find lists of the killed and wounded, 
and of those who were picked up by the Deerhound; the remainder, 
there is reason to hope, were picked up by the enemy, and by a couple 
of French pilot boats, which were also fortunately near the scene 
of action. At the end of the engagement, it was discovered by those 
of our officers who went alongside of the enemy's ship, with the 
wounded, that her mid-ship section, on both sides, was thoroughly 
iron-coated; this having been done with chains, constructed for the 
purpose, placed perpendicularly, from the rail to the water's edge, the 
whole covered over by a thin outer planking, which gave no indication 
of the armor beneath. This planking had been ripped off, in every 
direction, by our shot and shell, the chain broken, and indented in 
many places, and forced partly into the ship's sides. She was effectu- 
ally guarded, however, in this section, from penetration. The enemy 
was much damaged, in other parts, but to what extent it is now im- 
possible to say. It is believed he is badly crippled. My officers and 
men behaved steadily and gallantly, and though they have lost their 
ship, they have not lost honor. Where all behaved so well, it would 
be invidious to particularize, but I cannot deny myself the pleasure 
of saying that Mr. Kell, my first lieutenant, deserves great credit 
for the fine condition in which the ship went into action, with re- 
gard to her battery, magazine and shell-rooms, and that he rendered 
me great assistance, by his coolness, and judgment, as the fight pro- 
ceeded. The enemy was heavier than myself, both in ship and bat- 
tery, and crew; but I did not know tmtil the action was over, that 
she was also iron-clad. Our total loss in killed and wounded, is 30, 
to wit : 9 killed, and 21 wounded. 

4t 4t 4t 4t 4> 4> 

It was afterwards ascertained, that as many as ten were 

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drowned. As stated in the above despatch, I had the satis- 
faction of saving all my wounded men. Every one of them 
was passed carefully into a boat, and sent off to the enemy's 
ship, before the final plunge into the sea was made by the 
unhurt portion of the crew. Here is the proper place to drop 
a tear over the fate of a brave officer. My surgeon, D. H. 
Llewellyn, of Wiltshire, England, a grandson of Lord Her- 
bert, lost his life by drowning. It was his privilege to ac- 
company the wounded men, in the boats, to the Kearsarge, but 
he did not do so. He remained and took his chance of escape, 
with the rest of his brethren in arms, and perished almost in 
sight of his home, after an absence of two years from the 
dear ones who were to mourn his loss. With reference to 
the drowning of my men, I desire to present a contrast to the 
reader. I sank the Hatteras off Galveston, in a night en- 
gagement. When the enemy appealed to me for assistance, 
telling me that his ship was sinking, I sent him all my boats, 
and saved every officer and man, numbering more than a 
hundred persons. The Alabama was sunk in open daylight 
— the enemy's ship being only 400 yards distant — and ten of 
my men were permitted to drown ; indeed, but for the friendly 
interposition of the Deer hound, there is no doubt that a great 
many more would have perished. 

Captain Winslow has stated, in his despatch to his Gov- 
ernment, that he desired to board the Alabama, He preserved 
a most respectful distance from her, even after he saw that 
she was crippled. He had greatly the speed of me, and could 
have laid me alongside, at any moment, but, so far from 
doing so, he was shy of me even after the engagement had 
ended. In a letter to the Secretary of the Federal Navy, pub- 
lished by Mr. Adams, in London, a few days after the en- 
gagement, he says: — "I have the honor to report that, toward 
the close of the action between the Alabama and this vessel, 
all available sail was made on the former, for the purpose of 
regaining Cherbourg. When the object was apparent, the 
Kearsarge was steered across the bow of the Alabama, for a 
raking fire, but before reaching this point, the Alabama struck. 
Uncertain whether Captain Semmes was not making some 
ruse, the Kearsarge was stopped." This is probably the ex- 
planation of the whole of Captain Winslow's strange con- 

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duct at the time. He was afraid to approach us because of 
some ruse that we might be practising upon him. Before he 
could recover from his bewilderment, and made up his mind 
that we were really beaten, my ship went down. I acquit him, 
therefore, entirely of any intention of permitting my men 
to drown, or even of gross negligence, which would be almost 
as criminal. It was his judgment which was entirely at fault. 
I had known and sailed with him, in the old service, and knew 
him then to be a humane and Christian gentleman. What 
the war may have made of him, it is impossible to say. It 
has turned a great deal of the milk of human kindness to gall 
and wormwood. 


From ' Memoirs of Service Afloat' 

One word before I part with my friend Maury. In com- 
mon with thousands of mariners all over the world, I owe 
him a debt of gratitude, for his gigantic labors in the scien- 
tific fields of our profession; for the sailor may claim the 
philosophy of the seas as a part of his profession. A knowl- 
edge of the winds and the waves, and the laws which govern 
their motion is as necessary to the seaman as is the art of 
handling his ship, and to no man so much as to Maury is he 
indebted for a knowledge of these laws. Other distinguished 
co-laborers, as Reid, Redfield, Espy, have contributed to the 
science, but none in so eminent a degree. They dealt in 
specialties — as, for instance, the storm — but he has grasped 
the whole science of meteorology — dealing as well in the 
meteorology of the water, if I may use the expression, as in 
that of the atmosphere. 

A Tennesseean by birth, he did not hesitate when the 
hour came "that tried men's souls." Poor, and with a large 
family, he gave up the comfortable position of Superintendent 
of the National Observatory, which he held under the Federal 
Government, and cast his fortunes with the people of his 
State. He had not the courage to be a traitor, and sell him- 
self for gold. The State of Tennessee gave him birth; she 
carried him into the Federal Union, and she brought him out 

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of it. Scarcely any man who withdrew from the old servid 
has been so vindictively and furiously assailed as Maury. 
The nationalists of the North — and I mean by nationalists^ 
the whole body of the Northern people, who ignored the rights 
of the State, and claimed that the Federal Government wa£ 
paramount — ^had taken especial pride in Maury and his labors. 
He, as well as the country at large, belonged to them. The} 
petted and caressed him, and pitted him against the philos- 
ophers of the world, with true Yankee conceit. They had 
the biggest country, and the cleverest men in the world, and 
Maury was one of these. 

But Maury, resisting all these blandishments, showed, to 
their horror, when the hour of trial came, that he was a 
Southern gentleman, and not a Puritan. The change of 
sentiment was instantaneous and ludicrous. Their self-con- 
ceit had received an awful blow, and there is no wound so 
damaging as that which has been given to self-conceit Al- 
most everything else may be forgiven, but this never can 
Maury became at once a "rebel" and a "traitor," and every- 
thing else that was vile. He was not even a philosopher any 
longer, but a hum-bug and a cheat. In science, as in other 
pursuits, there are rivalries and jealousies. The writer of 
these pages, having been stationed at the seat of the Federal 
Government for a year or two preceding the war, was witness 
of some of the rivalries and jealousies of Maury, on the part 
of certain small philosophers, who thought the world had not 
done justice to themselves. These now opened upon the de- 
throned monarch of the seas, as live asses will kick at dead 
lions, and there was no end to the partisan abuse that was 
heaped upon the late Chief of the National Observatory. 

Maury had been a Federal naval officer, as well as phil- 
osopher, and some of his late confrhes of the Federal service, 
who, in former years, had picked up intellectual crumbs from 
the table of the philosopher, and were content to move in 
orbits at a very respectful distance from him ; now, raised by 
capricious fortune to place, joined in the malignant outcry 
against him. Philosopher of the Seas! thou mayest afford 
to smile at these vain attempts to humble thee. Science, 
which can never be appreciated by small natures, has no 
nationality. Thou art a citizen of the world, and thy historic 

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fame does not depend upon the vile traducers of whom I have 
spoken. These creatures, in the course of a few short years, 
will rot in unknown graves; thy fame will be immortal! 
Thou hast revealed to us the secrets of the depths of the 
ocean, traced its currents, discoursed to us of its storms and 
its calms, and taught us which of its roads to travel, and which 
to avoid. Every mariner, for countless ages to come, as he 
takes down his chart, to shape his course across the seas, 
will think of thee ! He will think of thee as he casts his lead 
into the deep sea; he will think of thee, as he draws a bucket 
of water from it, to examine its animalculae; he will think 
of thee as he sees the storm gathering thick and ominous; 
he will think of thee as he approaches the calm-belts, and 
especially the calm-belt of the equator, with its mysterious 
cloud-ring; he will think of thee as he is scudding before the 
"brave west winds" of the Southern hemisphere; in short, 
there is no phenomenon of the sea that will not recall to him 
thine image. 


Mobile, Ala., August 12, 1865. 
My Dear Brother : — ^The cessation of the war leaves me 
at liberty to renew my correspondence with you, without 
subjecting you to suspicion and annoyance; and I need not 
say to you how grateful to the yearnings of my heart is this 
long-suspended privilege. You have been frequently in my 
thoughts during our unfortunate struggle, and I have often 
felt much solicitude on your account, lest a part of the odium 
and ill-will which a zealous performance of my duty has 
called down upon my head from a "mad nation" should attach 
to you and your family; and operate to your injury. I have 
never inquired as to your opinions and conduct during the war, 
being content to leave you the same liberty of choice and 
action that I claimed for myself. I knew that whatever you 
did you would do like a man of honor, and I rested satisfied 
Besides, you had been for some time retired from active life 
by your want of health. As for myself I have nothing to 
regret, save only the loss of our independence. My conscience, 

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which IS the only earthly tribunal of which a good man should 
be afraid, bears me witness of the uprightness of my inten- 
tion in choosing my course, when, with many regrets, I sev- 
ered my connection with the old Government and hastened 
to the defense of my home and section; and now, upon re- 
viewing the whole of my subsequent career, I can see no act 
with which I have to reproach myself as unbecoming a man 
of honor and a gentleman. I approved the secession move- 
ment of the Southern states, although I had no agency in it. 
I thought that a separation of those two sections of our Re- 
public, which had been engaged in a deadly moral conflict 
for thirty years, would ultimately result to the great advan- 
tage of them both. The world was wide enough for them to 
live apart, and peace, I thought, would be the fruit of their 
mutual independence of each other. Although I cared very 
little about the institution of slavery, I thought that the subor- 
dinate position of the inferior race was its proper position. I 
believed that the doctrine of State's Rights was the only 
doctrine which would save our Republic from the fate of all 
other Republics that had gone before us in the history of the 
world. I believed that this doctrine had been violated, and 
that it would never be sufficiently respected by the controlling 
masses of the Northern section to prevent them from defacing 
with sacrilegious hands our national bond of union where- 
soever its letter was meant to guard the peculiar rights of the 
South. Believing this, there was but one course which a 
faithful Southern man could pursue, and maintain his self 
respect. I pursued that course. When the alternative was 
presented to me of adhering to the allegiance due to my State 
or to the United States I chose the former. 

Having taken my side, I gave it zealous and earnest sup- 
port. I spent four years in active service and only ceased to 
labor for my cause when it was no longer possible. I ren- 
dered this service without ever having treated a prisoner other- 
wise than humanely and I may say, often kindly, and without 
ever having committed an act of war, at any time, or in any 
manner, which was not sanctioned by the laws of war, yet my 
name will probably go down to posterity in the untruthful 
histories that will be written by bigoted and venal historians 
as a sort of Blue Beard or Captain Kidd. But I am con- 

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tent, my brother. My conscience is clear ; my self respect has 
been preserved, and my sense of manhood remains unimpaired. 
I think, too, the South will be content, notwithstanding her 
immense losses and sacrifices. If she had yielded to the intol- 
erant exactions of Northern selfishness and fanaticism, with- 
out appealing to the arbitrament of war, she would have played 
a craven and unworthy part. It is better to lose everything 
than our honor and manhood. I know you will believe me, my 
brother, when I tell you that I should feel greatly humbled, in 
my own opinion, were I this day entitled to wear an Admiral's 
flag in the old navy, and in possession of all the means and 
appliances of wealth, if I thought my honors and rewards 
had been gained by a sacrifice of creed. The preservation of 
my own self-respect is infinitely preferable to all such gains. 
I have come out of the war poor, but, God willing, I shall 
make a support for my family. The president treats me as an 
outlaw, unworthy of amnesty. I have nothing to say. If I 
am deemed unworthy to be a citizen I can remain in my na- 
tive land as an alien. 

A magnanimous people would have passed an act of gen- 
eral amnesty, it being absurd and ridiculous to talk about 
Rebels and traitors in connection with such a revolution as 
has swept over the length and breadth of this land, in which 
States, and not individuals merely, were the actors. But 
enough of this subject. I am still in Mobile, but as yet un- 
certain where I shall go, or what I shall do. If I save five or 
six thousand dollars out of the wreck of my affairs, it will be 
fully as much as I expect. I think of retiring into the country, 
where, upon a small farm, I can live in obscurity and peace 
the few years that will remain to me. My children are all 
grown; are well educated, and will be able if "the worst comes 
by the worst," to take care of themselves. Remember me 
kindly to your family, my dear brother, and let me hear from 
you. We have become old men. We have both had our 
troubles, but the chain of affection which binds me to you 
remains unaffected by the cares of the world, and is as bright 
now as when we slept in each other's arms. 

Your affectionate brother, 

R. Semmes. 

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[1844— ] 


HENRY ELLIOTT SHEPHERD was born at Fayetteville, North 
Carolina, January 17, 1844, He was the son of Jesse George 
Shepherd, a prominent lawyer and jurist of his State. His mother 
was Catherine Dobbin, a sister of James C. Dobbin, Secretary of 
the Navy under Pierce at the time when the Japanese were first 
brought, through their famous treaty with the United States, to an ap- 
preciation of the superiority of Western civilization. As a youth 
in Fayetteville, Henry E. Shepherd had the privilege of tutelage 
under, and association with, this distinguished uncle, who had been 
a foremost instrument in the world-policy of introducing to the na- 
tions the most remarkable people of the beginning of the Twentieth 
Century. Through him chiefly, and through others, the boy was 
imbued with a love of literature that was carried into his camp life 
as a mere stripling in the Confederate Army, and which burned as 
ardently through the darker days of reconstruction. 

After a period of school life at Heymount and then at Donaldson 
Academy, the latter an institution following most rigidly the old 
classical type of instruction, Shepherd entered Davidson College at 
the age of fourteen. Subsequently, he left the college to go with 
his favorite teacher, Major D. H. Hill, to the military academy es- 
tablished by him at Charlotte. Here the pupils of the future Con- 
federate leader received remarkable training for the "irrepressible 
conflict" through the very phraseology of the examples to be found 
in Major Hill's text-book on algebra. 

From the military academy in the Old North State, Shepherd 
went to. the University of Virginia, October i, i860, where he pur- 
sued literary, classical, and historical courses with distinction under 
Holmes, Dudley, Gildersleeve, McGuffey, and Scheie De Vere, imtil 
the outbreak of the war. 

When Virginia was invaded, Shepherd, then a youth of seven- 
teen, enlisted under D. H. Hill at Yorktown, in 1861. But, because 
of his military training, he was soon detailed by the State of North 
Carolina to the drilling of raw recruits at Raleigh and other places. 
It has been said that when he was appointed to the First-Lieutenancy 
in the Forty-third North Carolina troops, he was the youngest com- 

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missioned officer in the annies of the Confederacy. He served gal- 
lantly, and shortly after receiving the special commendation of his 
command, he was severely wounded and captured at Gettysburg, 
July 3, 1863. He was held as a prisoner until the close of the war, 
to go home to the scene of Sherman's desolation, far less embit- 
tered by war and the hardships of military prison than by the sight 
of this carnival of ruin and the mute agony of homeless women 
and children* 

In the dark days that followed, he assiduously studied and taught 
as circumstances permitted After teaching at Louisburg he went to 
Baltimore, Maryland, in 1868. At twenty-four, he was appointed 
head of the departments of English and history in the City College; 
and in 1875 he assumed the responsibility of the headship of public 
education in the city of Baltimore. He continued in office until his 
resignation, in 1882, to accept the presidency of the College of 
Charleston, South Carolina, where he accomplished a great work in 
upbuilding that institution. In 1897 he returned to Baltimore to 
take up independent work and to engage in original research in the 
realms of literature and history. He conducted a number of pri- 
vate classes in special work in this latter period, and was also 
engaged in lecturing in several states. He delivered the dedicatory 
oration at the unveiling of the montunent to Edgar Allan Poe in 
Westminster Churchyard, Baltimore, in 1875. It should be said, in 
this connection, that another Southern poet, the immortal author of 
"Maryland, My Maryland!" had led the way in this earliest move- 
ment to honor Poe in American marble; and it was Dr. Shepherd 
who had the honor of delivering the principal address at the un- 
veiling, thirty-four years later, of the portrait of James Ryder Ran- 
dall in the State House at Annapolis, in January, 1909, one year 
after the death of the gifted Southern lyricist. 

Dr. Shepherd received the degree of Doctor of Laws from Da- 
vidson College and the University of North Carolina in 1883, the 
degree of Master of Arts having been previously conferred upon 
him by Davidson and Lafayette. Not the least of his labors in the 
field of literary achievement are the publications from his active 
mind and pen, beginning with his 'History of the English Lan- 
guage,' published first in 1878, which ran through several editions 
in the six years thereafter. This volume, published at an early age, 
was in the nature of a pioneer work on philological study in America. 
In the publishing center of the more wealthy and populous North, 
the critics, curiously brought up in the belief that erudition and lit- 
erary production were alike improbable in the South, where "sla- 
very had been so long the inhibition of culture," the book seems 
not to have attained wide repute, however much it may have been 

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consulted in later works on similar lines. Philological research 
has gone forward with leaps and bounds since the publication oi 
Dr. Shepherd's 'History of the English Language'; but abroad the 
volume was given extended and complimentary notice in The West- 
minster Review as late as January, 1886. 

Dr. Shepherd is also the author of the following books : *A Study 
of Edgar Allan Poe'; Essays in Modern Language Notes; 'A Com- 
mentary upon Tennyson's "In Memoriam"'; and 'Life of Robert 
Edward Lee.' 

In addition, he has contributed to 'The New English Dictionary/ 
The American Journal of Philology, and many other educational 

In all his career, Dr. Shepherd has always been an ever ready 
source of knowledge and assistance, not only to his numerous pu- 
pils, but to strangers as well. In fact, his course in this regard 
may be open to criticism in the light of advancing his own interests, 
from the standpoint of a coldly business view. A lawyer, a doctor, 
or any follower of a learned calling, would scarcely consider the free 
giving of professional advice to all who sought it Yet such has 
ever been the case with Dr. Shepherd — ^his aid and encouragement 
may be had by the poorest comer. 



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From 'A Commentary upon Tennyson's "In Mcmoritm." * Copyright, Neale 
Publishing Company, and used here by permission. 

It is impossible to reveal in adequate form the genius of 
a great master of either prose or poetry by mere abstract de- 
scription, however faithful in conception or forceful in pre- 
sentation that description may be. The concrete study of the 
poets alone reveals their power — ^the power of Dante in the 
Divine Comedy, Goethe in Faust, Shakespeare in Hamlet, Mil- 
ton in Lycidas, Tennyson in In Menioriam. 

The first edition of In Me^noriam was published in 1850, 
the year of Wordsworth's death and of Tennyson's accession 
to the office of Laureate. While many verbal or phrasal 
emendations have marked the fastidious revisions of the poet, 
there have been few additions to the body of the work. The 
most noteworthy of these is probably the section designated in 
later editions as No. 39, which was incorporated into the text 
in 1869. Among the supreme achievements of elegiac Eng- 
lish poetry, In Memoriam assumes the first place. Those that 
precede it in point of time and form part of the series of mas- 
terpieces to which it belongs are Milton's Lycidas, 1638; Dry- 
den's Ode In Memory of Mrs. Killigrezv, 1686; Shelley's 
Adonais, 1821. Matthew Arnold's Thyrsis, a poem, inspired 
by the death of his cherished friend, Arthur Hugh Qough, did 
not appear until 1866, sixteen years later than In Memoriam, 
Its grace and delicacy of execution, as well as its tenderness 
and plaintiveness of tone, have won for it an abiding rank 
among the foremost elegies of our language. The elegies of 
the Elizabethan age and the age preceding — such as the tribute 
of the Earl of Surrey to his friend and co-worker, Sir Thomas 
Wyatt, or the many tributes evoked by the death of Sir Philip 
Sidney — need not be considered here. 

Among the master elegies that have been named, Lycidas 
and In Memoriam probably sustain the most intimate relation, 
their points of affinity being marked, despite the differences 
of personal and historical surroundings that distinguish them. 
The circumstances of their composition, the characteristics of 
the times in which they were produced, and the relations sus- 

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tained by the two poets to the heroes of the two elegies de- 
mand at least a moment's consideration before we pass to the 
critical and minute study of In Memoriam. 

Lycidas was written in 1637, and was occasioned by the 
death of Edward King, who had been a college friend of Mil- 
ton's at Cambridge. King was lost at sea in August, 1637. 
The poem was published in 1638 as a contribution to a volume 
of memorial verses issued by students of the university as an 
expression of regard for King, which possibly rose above the 
plane of the merely perfunctory and conventional. 

In Memoriam, which appeared more than two centuries 
later, was occasioned by the death of Arthur Henry Hallam, 
a young man of twenty-two, of rare promise and a phenome- 
nal range of acquirements, who had been Tennyson's friend 
at Trinity College, Cambridge, and was betrothed to a sister 
of the poet. To young Hallam, who was born February i, 
181 1, Nature had been prodigal of her gifts. Despite an aver- 
sion to the science of mathematics, such as was characteristic 
of that other renowned pupil of Trinity, Thomas Babington 
Macaulay, and of Robert Lowe during his student life at Ox- 
ford, Hallam's critical, creative and acquisitive power was 
of an order that ranged him among the dawning lights of his 
generation. Though educated for the legal profession and 
admitted to the bar, the strong propensity of nature impelled 
Hallam to the study of literature and inspired him with a 
zealous devotion to the masters of Italian and Provencal 
poetry. His admiration for the Troubadours revealed itself 
in the affectionate assiduity which appeared in his exegesis 
of their lays. Of "the world-worn Dante" he was the skilful 
and scholarly interpreter, a circumstance which elicited the 
familiar allusion in section 89 of In Memoriam. , . . 
. . . When we compare thie inner life of Lycidas and of In 
Memoriam, we find that no such strong bond of friendship 
existed between John Milton and Edward King as knit the 
soul of Alfred Tennyson to the soul of Arthur Hallam. It is 
certain that King was more marked by sweetness of temper 
and purity of heart than by brilliancy of intellect. In poetic 
power he stood at an almost infinite distance from Milton. 
He is a mere accessory in Lycidas itself to the general pre- 
sentation of the picture. The Puritan poet availed himself of 

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King's death as an eligible occasion for setting forth in alle- 
gorical drapery — ^suggested by Milton's critical acquaintance 
with ancient and with Italian poetry — the passionate enthusi- 
asm, the intense earnestness pervading the cause of which he 
was the supreme artistic exponent. In 1637 we are but five 
years from the beginning of the great Civil War, 1642. The 
policy of Laud and of Wentworth was rushing to its climax — 
the one in church, the other in state. All the complex forces 
embraced in Puritanism were converging to their issue. It is 
only in a subordinate or secondary sense that Lycidas may be 
regarded as a personal elegy. Religious fervor is tempered 
by artistic grace to a degree probably never surpassed in the 
evolution of our literature. It is the supreme achievement of 
the Puritan genius in the sphere of art and of art consecrated 
to religion. 

In the history of our race and language no such monu- 
ment has been reared to the memory of any man as Tenny- 
son has erected to perpetuate the name and renown of Hallam. 

Who so sepulchered, in such pomp dost lie, 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 

Although In Memoriam did not see the light until 1850, it 
is certain that the poet's "shaping spirit of imagination" be- 
gan its creation not long after Hallam's death in 1833. I^ 
was written at various times and in different places in Lin- 
colnshire, Essex, Gloucestershire, Wales — ^wherever and when- 
ever, to adopt the poet's own expression, "the spirit moved 
him to the task." A concise review of the tendencies of the 
age which saw the inception of the poem is requisite to com- 
plete, or even to render intelligible, the broad lines of differ- 
ence that distinguish the crowning work of Milton from the 
sovereign achievement of Tennyson in the same sphere of 
poetic art. 

The fervor of the great day which had been precluded by 
the French Revolution was slowly sinking into the decorous 
and prosaic uniformity of modern and contemporary life. Sir 
Walter Scott and Goethe had died in 1832, the year of the 
reform bill — ^the year preceding Hallam's death ; Keats, Shel- 
ley, and Byron had passed to their rest ; Coleridge had long 
ago abandoned poetry for philosophy and criticism; a na- 


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tiohal appreciation of Wordsworth was beginning to develop; 
Arnold was in the early years of his Rugby epoch ; Macaulay 
had gained assured fame by his essay on Milton, 1825 ; Pau- 
line, Browning's first distinctive poem, was published in 1833; 
in 1834 Thomas Carlyle fixed his permanent abode in London; 
in July, 1833, Keble preached his sermon on the National 
Apostasy, which is regarded by discerning and judicious his- 
torians as marking definitely the beginning of the Anglo- 
Catholic movement. The teachings of the age of Laud ap- 
peared once more, inculcated by the mellow grace of New- 
man's style, always suggestive of immense reserve power, 
always lacking the very suspicion of constraint or effort. As 
the poetry and romance of Scott fell back upon the mediaeval 
day for inspiration, so the Oxford school — for Newman was 
an ardent admirer of Scott — reverted to a vanished Catholic 
age, such as Laud had endeavored to recall in his strivings 
after "the beauty of holiness." 


From an Address delivered upon the Dedication of the Monument to Foe in 
Westminster Churchyard, Baltimore, 1875. 

Edgar A. Poe was bom in 1809, ^^^ same year with 
Alfred Tennyson, the present Poet-laureate, and with Mrs. 
Browning, the most gifted poetess of any age. The third 
great era in English literature had then fairly commenced. 
The glory of the elder day was revived. The delusive splen- 
dor that had so long gilded the Augustan age of Anne paled 
before the comprehensive culture, the marvellous intellectual 
expansion that distinguished the first thirty years of the pres- 
ent century. The spirit of poesy, no longer circumscribed 
by the arbitrary and enervating procedures of Dryden's con- 
templated academy, ranged in unchecked freedom over seas 
and continents, arousing the buried forms of mediaeval civili- 
sation, the lay of the minstrel, the lyric of the troubadour, the 
ancient splendor of the Arthurian cycle. One day was as a 
thousand years in the growth and advancement of the human 
mind. Edgar was in his childhood when the Georgian era 

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had attained the full meridian of its greatness. He spent five 
years at school in England, from 1816 to 1821. During this 
interval little is known of his personal history, save what he 
has left us in the story of "William Wilson," in which he de- 
picts, with a power of vivid delineation worthy of the best 
days of De Quincey, his impressions of the school and its sur- 
roundings. We may feel assured, however, that his mind was 
rapidly unfolding, end with that keen susceptibility character- 
istic of the dawning intellect of youth, acquiring a permanent 
coloring from the wonderful drama that was enacting around 
him. The term of Edgar's school-life in England was a period 
of intense poetical activity and creative power, heroic emprise, 
knightly valor and brilliant achievement. The atmosphere 
was vocal with the strains of songsters, whose notes make as 
sweet music as when they fell for the first time upon the ears 
of our youthful poet, and aroused him to the consciousness 
of poetic power. Alfred Tennyson was seven years of age 
when Edgar arrived in England, and during the time of Ed- 
gar's school-life at Stokes was spending his play-hours with 
Malory's Morte d' Arthur upon his knees, musing upon the 
faded splendors of the Table Ronde, and looking forward, 
with prophetic vision, to the time when Lancelot, Arthur, Per- 
cival, and Galahad should regain their ancient sway, with 
more than their ancient renown as the m)rthical heroes of the 
British race. Mrs. Browning and Arthur Hallam, the hero 
of In Memoriantj were in their childhood ; Byron, Scott, Shel- 
ley and Keats were in the zenith of their fame, and the Eng- 
lish tongue had not been illustrated by so brilliant a constel- 
lation of poets since "the spacious times of great Elizabeth." 

It were difficult to imagine that this constellation did not 
exert an inspiring influence upon the genius and temperament 
of our youthful poet — an influence which must have in some 
degree determined his future career. He must have listened, 
with that exquisite sympathy of which the poetic temperament 
alone is capable, to the mournful story of Keats, the "young 
Lycidas" of our poetic history. A strange resemblance in in- 
tellectual constitution may be discerned between these way- 
ward children of genius — the same deep taint of Celtic melan- 
choly; the same enthusiastic worship of supernal beauty; the 
same relentless struggle with the immutability of fact. The 

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delicately wrought sensibilities of Keats, who "could feel the 
daisies growing over him," strikingly recall the memory of 
our own poet, who imagined that he could "distinctly hear the 
darkness as it stole over the horizon." "A thing of beauty 
is a joy forever" was the animating principle of the genius 
of the one and the art of the other. 

In 1822, Edgar, then in his fourteenth year, returned to 
his native land. He attained to manhood at a time when, by 
a transition familiar in the history of every literature, the 
supremacy was reverting from poetry to prose. The Romanic 
fervor, the Spenserian symphonies of our last great poetic 
era, were gradually yielding to the steady advance of philolog- 
ical investigation, critical dissertation and scientific analysis. 
A new reflective era, more brilliant than that of Pope or Bol- 
ingbroke, was dawning. The cold generalisations of reason, 
the relentless inductions of philosophy, chilled the glowing 
ardor of the preceding era. The publication of Macaulay's 
essay on Milton in 1825 marked the transition from the sway 
of the imaginative faculty to the present unsurpassed period 
in our prose literature. From this desultory outline of nearly 
contemporary literature you will observe that our poet's in- 
tellectual constitution was formed under peculiar conditions. 
He does not belong chronologically to the Georgian era; his 
position was, for the most part, one of comparative isolation — 
like that of Sackville, Wyatt or Collins, in the midst of an 
unpoetic generation, unsustained by the consolations of poetic 
association or the tender endearments of poetic sympathy. 
When Poe attained to the full consciousness of his great pow- 
ers, none of these quickening influences existed, save as mat- 
ters of hisfory or poetic tradition. Tennyson, in England, 
was viewing nature in perspective, and involving his critics 
in webs as tangled and hopeless as that which enveloped the 
fated Lady of Shalott. Wordsworth had abjured the teach- 
ings of his early manhood. Shelley, Keats and Byron were 
dead, Morris and Swinburne were yet unborn, and the thrones 
of the elder gods were principally filled by "the idle singers 
of an empty day." American poetry had then accomplished 
little that future ages will not willingly let die. The succes- 
sion of sweet songsters is never entirely broken. The silver 
cord that binds in perennial union the spirit of Chaucer and 

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the muse of Spenser is never severed, however slight and im- 
palpable may be the filaments that bind it together. There are 
always some who retain the echoes of long-gone melodies, 
upon whom descends something of the inspiration of those 
grand epochs around which is concentrated so much of the 
glory of the English tongue. Such a position is not an anom- 
aly in our literary history; such a relation was sustained by 
the chivalric Surrey, who introduced into the discordant Eng- 
lish of his time that peculiar form of verse which was attuned 
to the harmonies of Milton, and by means of which Shake- 
speare, after a long and painful struggle with the "bondage of 
rhyming," rose to the supreme heights of poetic excellence. A 
similar relation was sustained by Sackville, the sombre splen- 
dor of whose "Induction" proved him the worthy herald of 
Spenser's dawning greatness; and the gentle Cowper, who 
marks the transition from the school of Johnson and of Ad- 
dison to the advent of the Gothic revival. Such was in some 
essential respects the position that Poe occupies among Amer- 
ican poets in the order of poetic succession. Having traced 
somewhat in detail the conditions of the age during which our 
poet's intellectual constitution was developed, we are now pre- 
pared to appreciate the distinctive characteristics of his genius, 
as revealed in his prose, but more especially in his poetry. It 
is known to students of our literary history that in all periods 
of our literature from the time that our speech was reduced to 
comparative uniformity by the delicate discrimination and 
rare philological perception of Chaucer, there have existed 
two recognized schools of poets, the native and the classical. 
In some, the classical element is the informing principle, as 
in Milton, whose pages, sprinkled with the diamond-dust of 
classic lore — 

Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks 
In Vallombrosa, 

afford the most conspicuous illustration of its power. A won- 
derful impulse was communicated to the development of lit- 
erary poetry by "that morning-star of modern song,'' the poet 
Keats, and since his advent our poetry has tended more and 
more to divest itself of native and domestic sympathies, and 
to assume an artistic character. Our poetry may have lost 

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pliancy, but it has gained in elaboration and in verbal minute- 
ness. Genius and imagination are not subdued, but are regu- 
lated by the canons of art, and from this harmonious alliance 
arises the unsurpassed excellence of the poetry of Poe. 


From an Address delivered in January, 1909, at Annapolis, upon the unveiling of 
Randall's portrait in the State House. 

. . . No man was endowed with rarer charm than Randall. 
There are traits in his character which recall to memory the 
mythical as well the historical; and there was ever the image 
of Hamlet or the suggestion of Sir Philip Sidney, as we drank 
in his words of wisdom, his escapades of wit, his keen and 
discerning judgment, or noted the brooding melancholy which 
at times descended upon him like a cloud veiling the bright- 
ness of a central sun. Few subjects more fascinating to the 
biographer in whom the vital element of finely tempered sym- 
pathy exists have been revealed in our time than James R. 
Randall. Reluctantly we pass from the contemplation of the 
man to the analysis of the work of the poet. Absolute dual- 
ism will prove an impossibility in dealing with the man and his 
work, for never in all records has Newman's description, we 
might even say diagnosis, of personality as constituting the 
vital essence of literature, been more thoroughly illustrated 
in the concrete, than in the life and work of our Maryland 
poet. Every phase of his productivity seemed to reveal some 
special feature of his own many-sided humanity, whether he 
flitted from grave to gay, or moved with winged celerity from 
lively to severe. On the heights, or in the deeps, whether 
pouring out strains in My Maryland that thrilled an entire 
people more than the throb of the war drum, or in the vale of 
despair as portrayed in At Arlington, the same dominating 
note pervades all, the same vigorous personality confronts us. 
The theme and the mood may vary, but the same clear self- 
hood is reflected in all. 

Much has been said by recent critics in regard to the in- 
equality of Randall's poetry. Some of those who have ar- 
raigned him and decreed judgment against him seem to re- 

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gard this alleged inequality as one of his distinctive character- 
istics ; next to this, they deplore the crudity of his early crea- 
tions and point to the lack of wisdom displayed in bringing 
them into the clear light of day through the medium of pub- 
lication. Each of these charges is, it seems to us, unsustained 
by the evidence of the poems, and by that broader range of 
investigation which the student of literature from the view- 
point of comparison can always summon to his aid. To make 
good our contention, let us cite the case of Tennyson, whose 
early ventures in the sphere of poetry were given to the world 
in 1827, when their author was a lad of eighteen. Many of 
them, we are assured, had been written years in advance of 
the date of their appearance. Most of them are marked by 
the undeveloped form and feebleness of conception that are 
impressed upon the typical creation in verse, proceeding from 
the chrysalis or schoolboy stage of intellectual unfolding. To 
compare the Tennyson of 1827 with the Tennyson of 1830 
and 1832 is a suggestive and profitable task to him who de- 
lights to trace by concrete illustration the process of literary 

Scarcely less set off from the Randall of boyhood, a stu- 
dent of Georgetown College, is the Randall of April, 1861, 
who at the age of twenty-two burst out into sudden blaze with 
My Maryland, written at a remote point in the distant South 
by an unheralded teacher of literature in a school whose re- 
nown was circumscribed by narrow and local limits. The 
Palace of Art and A Dream of Fair Women were produced 
at an age almost coincident with that of Randall in 1861, but 
they rose slowly to fame; appreciation was a gradual and 
painful growth. Yet some caviller may contend that Randall's 
song was forced or stimulated into an abnormally precipitate 
renown by the seething passion, the fervid frenzy, that domi- 
nated our life during the earlier phases of our war between 
the states. The plea is as sophistical as it is shallow and super- 
ficial. The great mass of poetry gendered by our national 
strife, passed speedily into shadow from whatever point of 
view it proceeded, whether it sprang to life at Boston or in 
Richmond, on the ramparts of Fort Sumter or along the picket 
lines which guarded the approach to the federal stronghold 
that looked down the slopes of the Potomac. Never did the 

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principle of natural selection apply with greater energy or 
with more finely tempered discrimination than in the process 
of rejection and conservation as it relates to the poetry of 
North and South tracing its origin to the season of our drama 
of war from the appearance of My Maryland in 1861, until 
the furHng of the battle-flags with the coming of The Con- 
quered Banner as the logical sequel to the catastrophe of Ap- 
pomattox. That phase of our war poesy which survived the 
storm, and it represents but a narrow portion of that actually 
produced, was charged with an appealing power which swept 
all before it. The very logic of passion breathes through 
every strain of My Maryland. There is a blending of reason 
with fervor that is scarcely paralleled in the rarest anthology 
of ballad or of song. In this, its most striking characteristic, 
lies, in no small degree, the secret of its prevailing power. It 
addresses itself to our logical faculty and links, with its ap- 
peal to the rational nature, the passion that strikes to the very 
heart of sensibility. In a measure, this most wonderful of 
songs ever wrought into form by an American of any period 
brings into active play the complex elements embraced in the 
Platonic classification, for intellect, affections, will, are inclu- 
ded in its far-ranging and comprehensive ideal. At what a 
pole of contrast does it stand in this essential regard to na- 
tional odes in whatever language to the perfunctory creations 
of poets-laureate or official singers, and above all to the great 
mass of our own verse cradled into life by the seasons of storm 
and stress through which this vigorous young nation has 
passed during the single century of its broadening life. Com- 
pared with Randall's song, the Star Spangled Banner reveals 
its flagrant infirmity, metrical, rhythmical, logical, in the bold- 
est and fiercest light. On the other hand, Randall's youthful 
appeal, produced in the far distant South, circled the land like 
a girdle of fire, and swept beyond the seas in its expanding 
and increasing range. Though addressed primarily and almost 
exclusively to his native State, it burst through all local or 
sectional limitations, like a tidal wave of melody. 

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From 'life of Robert Edward Lee.' Copyright, Neale Publishing Company, and used 
here by permission of the publishers. 

. . . Our civil war developed an amazing richness and ver- 
satility of character, as well as intellectual, strategic, mechan- 
ical, social, religious, even literary attainments — as unguarded 
as the assertion may seem to those who are not versed in it. 
Yet among all its varied and diverse types it never revealed 
to the eye of the world a rarer personality than that of my 
teacher and commander, David Harvey Hill. My record is in 
large measure linked with his, for I was under his leadership 
during my Yorktown period — the first six months of the war, 
again in eastern North Carolina during the winter of 1862-3. 
He was not associated with the Gettysburg campaign, having 
been left in command in North Carolina, while the main body 
of the army advanced into Pennsylvania, June, 1863. There 
was a morbid, even a misanthropic, strain in his nature, largely 
to be traced to physical causes — chronic infirmity ; but the an- 
nals of war have not set before us a more heroic or dauntless 
soul. Jackson's genius for war, Lee's resistless magnetism, 
were not vouchsafed to Hill — ^but in those characteristics in 
which he excelled, invincible tenacity, absolute unconsciousness 
of fear, a courage never to submit or yield, no one has risen 
above him, not even in the annals of the Army of Northern 
Virginia. He was the very "Ironsides" of the South — Crom- 
well in some of his essential characteristics coming again in 
the person and genius of D. H. Hill. The antagonism of 
South to North assumed its intensest form in him. It ran 
through all his actions, it was the dominant motive that fash- 
ioned his life. Many survivors of the great conflict will re- 
call Hill's Algebra, in which the passionless science of pure 
mathematics is transformed into a political propaganda — 2, 
sort of campaign document to illustrate the cowardice of 
New England volunteers in the war with Mexico, demon- 
strating by equations the number of miles, the rate of speed 
that marked their retreat, as well as the other moral infirmi- 
ties that nature or the powers of evil had wrought into the 
soul of the typical Yankee. 

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The intensest fire of the Southern nature burned in the 
heart of D. H. Hill. Not less passionate than his hate of the 
Yankees was the indignation he cherished toward all rene- 
gades, recreants, or apostates that marred the fair fame of 
the South. An exempt, a skulk, or one upon whom rested the 
faintest suspicion of evading duty or shirking in the critical 
hour of impending Battle, was the special object of his wrath. 
The seven vials were poured upon him to the last dregs. The 
comment made by him upon an application for furlough sub- 
mitted by a member of a brass band, "shooters before toot- 
ers," has become historic. It was a common phrase in the 
Army of Northern Virginia. Not less vehement was his ha- 
tred of the political cabals at Richmond, which he claimed were 
destroying the efficiency of the Confederate service. Intem- 
perance or dissipation in any form was for him the unpar- 
donable sin. Yet with all his tendency toward extremes, D. 
H. Hill was a man of literary attainments, an assiduous stu- 
dent of Holy Scripture, and as a teacher of mathematics un- 
surpassed among American teachers. His little volumes of 
essays — "The Sermon on the Mount" and "The Agony in the 
Garden" — I preserve with affectionate care as a memory of 
one who stood to me in the complex relation of teacher, com- 
mander, and unswerving friend, until in 1889 he passed to 
"where beyond these voices there is peace." His absolute 
unconsciousness of danger was enough to thrill the ordinary 
brain with a sort of vertigo as it revealed itself in the most 
phenomenal situations or supreme crises. Upon one occasion, 
his horse being shot under him, as he was in the act of writing 
an order, holding the paper in his hand, steed and rider sank 
to the earth and without the relaxation of a muscle or a move- 
ment of the head, he finished the order, handed it to a courier 
as calm and unconcerned as if reviewing the battalion of 
cadets in the grounds of the Institute at Charlotte. General 
Hill's loyal devotion to his friends was in one notable instance, 
at least, not without its bearing upon the fortunes of the war. 
During my year as a cadet in the North Carolina Military In- 
stitute at Charlotte — 1859-60 — there was in the corps an 
amiable and genial lad from the native town of General Hill, 
Yorkville, South Carolina, whose name was James W. Ratch- 
ford. The attachment of General Hill to his native State and 

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his home rose to the height of adoration, and for Ratchford 
as his townsman he cherished a regard that displayed itself 
in every relation, personal as well as official. It was during 
the first Maryland campaign, 14th September, 1862, that 
General Hill made his wonderful record at South Mountain 
Gap, Boonsboro, Maryland, holding at bay the overwhelming 
force of McClellan until Jackson had accomplished the cap- 
ture of Harper's Ferry. Then the several detached com- 
mands of the army converged upon Sharpsburg on Antietam 
Creek, at which point the army of Lee, with not more than 
one-third the effective troops at the disposal of McClellan, 
achieved the most brilliant single day of the entire war, re- 
pelling every assault, and withdrawing leisurely across the 
Potomac into Virginia. The character of this campaign is in 
a large measure involved with the history of my old classmate 
and comrade, Ratchford of Yorkville, South Carolina. 

At the beginning of the struggle Ratchford became an aid 
upon the staff of General Hill, and served in that capacity 
until its close. At the time that General Lee was arranging 
his plans for the capture of Harper's Ferry, the official orders 
explaining every detail of the campaign, sent to General Hill 
in common with the several heads of the army, were placed 
in the charge of his trusted aid, Ratchford, and by him were 
lost at the point where Hill and his staff encamped for the 
night on the march from Frederick to Boonsboro. The lost 
orders were picked up by a Federal spy, promptly forwarded 
to McClellan, and the whole story of Lee's movements was in 
the hands of the enemy. Immediately McQellan swooped 
down upon Hill's division with his overwhelming array, like 
an eagle falling upon his prey. Had not D. H. Hill stood 
in the imminent deadly breacli, it might have been a Ther- 
mopylae for the South. Hardly in the chronicles of war has 
there been a more heroic resistance or a more perilous escape. 
The fate of a nation seemed suspended upon the acts or the 
inadvertence of a single aid, a youthful staff officer whose 
devotion and fidelity not even malice or envy could impugn or 
suspect. Such was the commander with whom my fate was 
linked during the term of my novitiate in the army of the 
Confederacy. I remained on the Peninsula at Yorktown and 
Ship Point until the autumn of 1861. My acquaintance with 

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military tactics stood me in good stead, and I was especially 
assigned to the sad mechanic exercise of drilling the raw re- 
cruits who were coming into Yorktown from North Carolina. 
I acted in a similar capacity at Raleigh and at High Point 
during the winter and spring of i86i-'62, and I often recall, 
while brooding over the irreclaimable past, the faces and the 
individuality of the men that I trained for Lee's army, when I 
was a lad of seventeen fresh from academic centers, thrown 
at a bound from the studious cloister into the very heart of 
grim-visaged war. I must have drilled five hundred men for 
active service. Some of them won rank and fame; many 
are numbered with the unknown dead whose names are writ- 
ten in heaven. 

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William Gilmore Simms 

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WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS is the best misunderstood man 
in American letters. Some one has written of Cooper that it 
was his fortune to be depreciated during his lifetime rather than 
after his death; but of Simms, "the Southern Cooper," it must be 
said that it has been his misfortune to be neglected — ^by his own 
people, at least— during his lifetime, and depreciated after his death. 
Charleston neglected him then, and now his most competent biog- 
rapher, who had a rare chance to set him where he belongs, simply 
damns him with very faint praise. But his robust and heroic figure 
will some day defy oblivion, as it despised disaster, and he will rank 
with our pioneer masters. 

"The Southern Cooper," a nickname born of kindly but mistaken 
condescension, is itself a depreciation. Simms's pioneer novels are 
no more sectional than Cooper's. 'The Yemassee' atid 'The Cassique 
of Kiawah' belong just as much to the country at large as does The 
Last of the Mohicans,' for example; and 'The Partisan' is no less 
patriotic than The Spy.' Besides, Simms has equal ability with 
Cooper in many respects, and surpasses him in others, just as he 
shares in his faults. He has, perhaps, an equal story-telling power; 
he certainly surpasses his predecessor in versatility, culture, and pro- 
ductiveness, but, like Cooper, is frequently diffuse and often lacking 
in artistic self-restraint He admired Cooper, and wrote of him in 
such a way as led William CuUen Bryant to characterize his critical 
essay as one "of greatest depth and discrimination, to which I am 
not sure that an3rthing hitherto written on the same subject is fully 
equal." The two names will some day be linked in our literature 
just as they were in the minds of contemporary critics. Poe wrote 
of Simms, in 1844: "He has more vigor, more imagination, more 
movement, and more general capacity than all our novelists (save 
Cooper) combined." Dealing in the same material with great virility 
and massiveness of style; positive, forceful, and carelessly self- 
assured; grandly indifferent to the Goold-Brown school of gram- 
marians, but with eyes always open to the large and the dramatic, 
although somewhat too contemptuous of dramatic form — ^these twin 
chroniclers of our romantic early history are closer to each other in 

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character and achievement than any other twain of our letters. It 
is Cooper's biographer who writes the following sentences, but he 
might just as well be writing of Simms: "He was as devout an 
American as ever lived, for he could arraign the shortcomings of his 
countrymen as stanchly as he could defend and glorify their ideals. 
He entered fearlessly and passionately into the life around him, 
seeing intensely, yet sometimes blind; feeling ardently, yet not al- 
ways aright ; acting with might and conviction, yet not seldom amiss. 
He loved and revered good, scorned and hated evil, and with the 
strength and straightforwardness of a bull championed the one and 
gored the other. He published reams of stuff which no one now 
reads, and which was never worth reading, to enforce his views and 
prove that he was right and others wrong. Who cares to-day, or how 
are we the better or the worse, if he was right or wrong in his 
various convictions? What concerns us is that he wrote delightful 
stories of the forest and the sea ; it is in those stories, and not in his 
controversial or didactic homilies, that we choose to discover his 
faith in good and ire against evil. In short, he had his limitations; 
but with all his errors, we may take him and be thankful." 

It is easy to see why Simms has suffered, since the war, with the 
reading public at large : his star has not yet emerged from the clouds 
in which the war engulfed it An intense partisan, a fearless and 
always ready writer, an orator, a politician, and a strategist, he had 
much to do with bringing on the struggle. Once he was so bold as 
to beard the abolitionists in Boston — ^becoming the apologist for 
Brooks as against Sumner, and defending the divine rights of slavery I 
The impression has, therefore, got abroad that he was only a fire- 
eating rebel, and that everything he wrote was acrid with secession 
passion. People forget that of his hundred publications the majority 
not only antedate the war, but are broadly national; that his widest 
vogue was always in the North ; that this vogue extended to England 
and even to European translations. Simms was so much a part of 
the war, when it did come, that even his ablest and recent biographer 
has rather more to say of it than of him, and disparages him by 
means of it. What wonder that the public has disparaged him ? 

But it is somewhat more difficult to see why Charleston should 
have ignored him while he lived 

Charleston, let us remember, is a place peculiar unto itself. It 
possesses a charm such as no other American city can compass. It is 
a rare old place, a European city set down by mistake on the cis- 
Atlantic seaboard, a place that makes one think of Dresden china and 
fine old lace and snuff-boxes. It is a city of faded water-colors and 
of the faint aromas of a finery that the Cavaliers brought with them 
— a fragrance elsewhere forgotten, but here mingled with magnolia 

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blossoms and Southern sunshine into an atmosphere of sweetness and 
light. The cavaliers are still here, for that matter, and aristocracy 
makes the atmosphere of Charleston. This aristocracy will welcome 
you if you please it, and load you with hospitalities as only Charles- 
ton can, provided you be an outsider; but that native is eternally 
isolate from the "charmed circle" who is so unfortunate as to be bom 
north of Tradd Street or baptized north of Cumberland. Simms 
was blighted with this disgrace, although he had a grandfather, and 
"Charleston" — ^which is a small and sacred precinct in the city of 
that name — never forgave him. 

Not only so, but Simms was undoubtedly robustious. He was a 
great vital bull of a man, and the china-shop shivered at his presence. 
One nice, silver-voiced old Charleston gentleman would remark on a 
summer morning to another nice old Charleston gentleman at the 
comer of Broad and Meeting Streets: "Mr. Simms, I 'fancy, must 
have been in the neighborhood last evening." "Yes," the other would 
smilingly reply, "he was visiting two blocks from my residence, and 
I could catch every word of his preachment." Charleston contains 
no Boswells, and Simms was too proud to cool his big heels on Lord 
Chesterfield's door-steps; so he always remained an outsider until 
he died, when Charleston forgave him, and admitted him to that 
garden of the gods which is called Magnolia Cemetery. There is also 
a fine bust of him on the Battery, where, with Sargeant Jasper, he 
ranks as a Charleston immortal. Some day his wish will be realized, 
and the old city will plant a broken shaft over his grave in Mag- 
nolia, with his chosen epitaph: "Here lies one who, after a reason- 
ably long life, distinguished chiefly by unceasing labors, has left 
all his better works undone." 

A sample of Simms*s robustiousness which Charleston never for- 
got occurred during Nullification days. As editor of the Charleston 
Gazette, Simms opposed the doctrines of Calhoun and his numerous 
followers, standing stanch for the Union. But the Calhounites, tri- 
umphant in a local election, in September, 1831, organized a torch- 
light procession which marched tumultuously past the Gazette office 
on Broad Street. There stood Simms in his doorway, the massive, 
careless figure strongly outlined against the brightly lighted interior, 
as he smiled quizzically upon the uproarious troops of his foes. 
Some of them, offended by his attitude, hissed and otherwise in- 
sulted him, whereupon Simms taunted them as cowards. A rush 
was made upon the single unarmed man, but his perfect, cool bravery 
overawed the crowd, which shrank back to its torchlights and hooted. 
Although Simms afterward upheld the cause of secession with equal 
fortitude and boldness, matched only by his masterful ability, this 

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incident never was "closed/' but must always be taken into consid- 
eration when reckoning his relations with Charleston. 

While excluded from the inner sacred circle, Simms nevertheless 
had his faithful following. Charleston possessed an aristocracy of 
letters, as well as its aristocracy of birth, and so we find Paul Hayne 
and Henry Timrod the central figures in a cultured coterie whom 
Simms, "like a literary Nestor, gathered about him in his hospitable 
home." His country house in Barnwell County was no less noted 
for a magnetism that drew great hearts and great minds to its always 
open hearthstone. In the sad days that succeeded the war Simms 
neglected himself to look after Timrod, who, to use his own phrase, 
was "literally dying by inches." It was to Hayne, about this time, 
that he wrote with infinite pathos: "I am weary, Paul, and, having 
much to say, I must say no more; but, with love to all, God be with 
you in mercy." And Hayne has truly said of him, "The man was 
greater than his works." 

He was great in the opulence of his versatility. A partial list of 
his pursuits — ^and he did all these things with a certain distinction 
and ability beyond the average — ^shows that Simms was at one 
time and another not only novelist, historian, and poet, but also 
playwright and essayist, lecturer, statesman, and critic, botanist and 
military engineer, besides being planter and man-of-affairs. He was 
the most prolific of American writers, as a glance at his bibliography 
will show. Yet his chief greatness lay in the way he dealt with life, 
using his powers especially in his later days with a bravery that 
shamed despair and a courage that quailed before no disaster. From 
"Woodlands," his country home, in ruins, the old man wrote: "I 
mean to die with harness on my back." Overwhelmed with a deluge 
of bereavements and with disaster well-nigh insupportable, extracts 
from his letters about a year before his death prove how well he 
kept to the harness: "I do not now write for fame or notoriety 
or the love of it, but simply to procure the wherewithal of life for 
my children; and this is a toil requiring constant labor. My recent 
illness is simply the consequence of a continued strain upon the brain 
for four months, without the interval of a single day. ... I 
have been literally hors de combat from overwork of the brain — 
brain sweat, as Ben Jonson called it — ^and no body sweat, no physical 
exercise. . . . The sense of obligation pressing upon me, I 
went rigidly to work, concentrating myself at the desk from 20th 
October, 1868, to the ist of July, 1869, nearly nine months, without 
walking a mile in a week, riding but twice, and absent from work 
but half a day on each of these occasions. The consequence was 
that I finished two of the books and broke down on the third, having 
written during this period some three thousand pages." 

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A man so pressed to be prolific, and so naturally ready with his 
pen, must necessarily have turned off many shavings. But let the 
reader take up Simms's trilogy of the Revolution — The Partisan,' 
'Mellichampe,' and 'Katherine Walton'; let him even read a single 
novel, 'Woodcraft,' or The Yemassee'; or, if he be pressed for 
time, let him choose 'Grayling,' or that marvelous description of the 
burning of Columbia which appeared in the Columbia Phoenix — ^and 
he may see for himself that in William Gilmore Simms the country 
possessed a writer of power who was also that "noblest work of 
God," a brave and honest man, of rugged mold but tender heart and 
wise sincerity. The man lives in his style. 

He wrote much verse, and a few real poems. Of these, "The 
Lost Pleiad" is the best known, but "The Burden of the Desert" is 
superior. "The Edge of the Swamp," "The Grapevine Swing," and 
"Wonders of the Sea," together with several ballads in 'Areytos,' 
certainly deserve a place in any well-considered American anthology. 
But it is as a novelist of our pioneer days that Simms will loom 
large and larger in American literature as those days recede, until 
at last, together with Cooper, he will claim his place as an indis- 
pensable interpreter of history. 

W^illiam Gilmore Simms was born in Charleston, April 17, 1806, 
and died there June 11, 1870. The early influences of his life pro- 
ceeded chiefly from his father and his grandmother, the mother hav- 
ing died when the child was but two years old. The elder Simms — 
a native Irishman who had come to Charleston shortly after the 
Revolution — ^became a wanderer in the wilderness among the In- 
dians after the death of his wife; and the motherless boy at his 
grandmother's knee wondered wide-eyed about the wild wood and the 
Indians, the aged lady herself telling him many a story of heroic 
doings and hairbreadth adventurings, including the weird tale which 
Simms afterward turned into 'Grayling.' After an absence of eight 
years or so, the father came back to see his boy; and subsequently — 
when about eighteen years old — Simms traveled with this forest- 
ranging father through the tangled glades of the South. Here he 
not only learned at first hand from the Indians those tales and sin- 
gular traits that were afterward recorded in his books, but also be- 
came familiarly acquainted with such pioneer types as he there 
delineates from the life. But this young man came back to settle in 
Charleston, where in 1826 he married Miss Anna Giles. His second 
wife was Miss Chevallette Roach of "Woodlands," in Barnwell Coun- 
ty, whom he married in 1836. 

He had received but little actual schooling, having assisted in 
the support of his grandmother and himself by serving as clerk in an 
apothecary's shop at a very early age. But his natural bent toward 

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story-telling and verse-writing had made way for his talents even 
then, and when he sought a permanent vocation, he turned first to 
the law, but soon — irresistibly, as it would seem — ^to journalism and 
literature. Beginning with The Tablet, or Southern Monthly Literary 
Gazette, in 1828, and ending with editorials written for The Courier 
only a few days before his death, Simms devoted himself to his 
predestined calling with an assiduity unsurpassed by any American 
writer, in spite of his activity in many other directions, and the dis- 
tractions of an unusually checkered career. A detailed but unsym- 
pathetic account of his life may be found in Professor Trent's biog- 
raphy ('American Men of Letters* series), to which this sketch is 
indebted. Invaluable assistance was also received from Mrs. Cheval- 
lette Simms Rowe, of Charleston, a daughter of the novelist, and 
from his eldest son, William Gilmore Simms, Esq., of Barnwell, 
South Carolina. Simms is not only a notable American novelist, but 
his name is carved deep in the history of his native State. Let it be 
repeated, however after all is said, that the noblest thing about him 
is the way he lived his life. Like that "Hero Worker'' of whom he 
loved to sing, he fought his way through the fierce facts of life to 
the unfailing Truth that ever lies beyond them, and to this he clung 
with a fixedness of faith in the verities that grief or pain or ingrati- 
tude never could loosen ; so that when you stand to-day in the White 
Point Gardens at Charleston and look up toward the glorious placid 
brow that dominates the deeply furrowed face of this heroic sufferer 
as if with a certain god-like fearlessness of pain, you think how 
fitting it would be if the gifted sculptor had traced, underneath, that 
simple and fine line from "The Hero Worker,'' "Grief in the heart, 
while grandeur ruled the brain." 


Life of William Gilmore Simms. By William P. Trent. 
Southern Fiction Prior to i860. By James G. Johnson. 

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From 'The Yemassee.* 

Thus nature, with an attribute most strange, 
Gothes even the reptile, working in our thoughts. 
Until they weave themselves into a spell, 
That wins us to it. 

The afternoon of that day was one of those clear, sweet, 
balmy afternoons, such as make of the spring season in the 
south, a holiday term of nature. All was animated life and 
freshness. The month of April, in that region, is, indeed, 

the time. 
When the merry birds do chime 
Airy wood-notes wild and free. 
In secluded bower and tree, 
Season of fantastic change, 
Sweet, familiar, wild, and strange — 
Time of promise, when the leaf 
Has a tear of pleasant grief — 
When the winds, by nature coy. 
Do both cold and heat alloy. 
Nor to either will dispense 
Their delighting preference. 

The day had been gratefully warm; and, promising an 
early summer, there was a proUfic show of foliage throughout 
the forest. The twittering of a thousand various birds, and 
the occasional warble of that Puck of the American forests, 
the mocker — ^the Coonelatee, or Trick-tongue of the Yemas- 
sees — ^together with the gleesome murmur of zephyr and 
brook, gave to the scene an aspect of wooing and seductive 
repose, that could not fail to win the sense into a most happy 
unconsciousness. The old oaken grove which Bess Matthews, 
in compliance with the prayer of her lover, now approached, 
was delightfully conceived for such an occasion. All things 
within it seemed to breathe of love. The murmur of the 
brooklet, the song of the bird, the hum of the zephyr in the 
tree-top, had each a corresponding burden. The Providence 
surely has its purpose in associating only with the woods those 

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gentle and beautiful influences which are without use or object 
to the obtuse sense, and can only be felt and valued by a spirit 
of corresponding gentleness and beauty. The scene itself, to 
the eye, was of character to correspond harmoniously with the 
song of birds and the playful sport of zephyrs. The rich green 
of the leaves — the deep crimson of the wild flower — ^the 
gemmed and floral-knotted long grass that carpeted the path — 
the deep, solemn shadows of evening, and the trees through 
which the now declining sun was enabled only here and there 
to sprinkle a few drops from his golden censer — ^all gave power 
to that spell of quiet, which, by divesting the mind of its 
associations of every-day and busy life, throws it back upon its 
early and unsophisticated nature — ^restoring that time, in the 
elder and better condition of humanity, when, unchanged by 
conventional influences, the whole business of life seems to 
have been the worship of high spirits, and the exercise of 
living, holy, and generous affections. 

The scene and time had a strong influence over the maiden, 
as she slowly took her way to the place where she was to meet 
her lover. Bess Matthews, indeed, was singularly susceptible 
of such influences. She was a girl of heart, but a wild heart 
— 3. thing of the forest — gentle as its most imiocent flowers, 
quite as lovely, and if, unlike them, the creature of a less fleet- 
ing life, one, at least, whose youth and freshness might almost 
persuade us to regard her as never having been in existence 
for a longer season. She was also a girl of thought and in- 
tellect — ^something, too, of a dreamer :— one to whom a song 
brought a sentiment — the sentiment an emotion, and that tP 
turn sought for an altar on which to lay all the worship of her 
spirit. She had in her own heart a far sweeter song than that 
which she occasionally murmured from her lips. She felt all 
the poetry, all the truth of the scene — its passion, its inspira- 
tion ; and, with a holy sympathy for all of nature's beautiful, 
the associated feeling of admiration for all that was noble, 
also, awakened in her mind a sentiment, and in her heart an 
emotion, that led her, not less to the most careful forbear- 
ance to tread upon the humblest flower, than to a feeling little 
short of reverence in the contemplation of the gigantic tree. 
It was her faith, with one of the greatest of modem poets, 
that the daisy enjoyed its existence; and that, too, in a degree 

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of exquisite perception, duly according with its loveliness of 
look and delicacy of structure. This innate principle of regard 
for the beautiful forest idiots, as we may call its leaves and 
flowers, was duly heightened, we may add, by the soft pas- 
sion of love then prevailing in her bosom for Gabriel Harri- 
son. She loved him, as she found in him the strength of the 
tree well combined with the softness of the flower. Her heart 
and fancy at once united in the recognition of his claims 
upon her aflFections; and, however unknown in other respects 
she loved him deeply and devotedly for what she knew. Be- 
yond what she saw — ^beyond the knowledge gathered from 
his uttered sentiments, and the free grace of his manner — his 
manliness, and playful frankness — ^he was scarcely less a mys- 
tery to her than to her father, to whom mystery had far less 
of recommendation. But the secret — and he freely admitted 
that there was a secret — he promised her should soon be re- 
vealed ; and it was pleasant to her to confide in the assurance. 
She certainly longed for the time to come; and we shall be 
doing no discredit to her sense of maidenly delicacy when we 
say, that she wished for the development not so much because 
she desired the satisfaction of her curiosity, as because the 
objections of her sire, so Harrison had assured her, would 
then certainly be removed, and their union would immediately 

"He is not come," she murmured, half disappointed, as 
the old grove of oaks with all its religious solemnity of shadow 
lay before her. She took her seat at the foot of a tree, the 
growth of a century, whose thick and knotted roots, started 
from their sheltering earth, shot even above the long grass 
around them, and ran in irregular sweeps for a considerable 
distance upon the surface. Here she sat not long, for her 
mind grew impatient and confused with the various thoughts 
crowding upon it — ^sweet thoughts it may be, for she thought 
of him whom she loved — of him almost only ; and of the long 
hours of happy enjoyment which the future had in store. 
Then came the fears, following fast upon the hopes, as the 
shadows follow the sunlight. The doubts of existence — the 
brevity and the fluctuations of life; these are the contempla- 
tions even of happy love, and these beset and saddened her; 
till, starting up in that dreamy confusion which the scene not 

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less than the subject of her musings had inspired, she glided 
among the old trees, scarce conscious of her movement. 

"He does not come — he does not come," she murmured, as 
she stood contemplating the thick copse spreading before her, 
and forming the barrier which terminated the beautiful range 
of oaks which constituted the grove. How beautiful was the 
green and garniture of that little copse of wood. The leaves 
were thick, and the grass around lay folded over and over in 
bunches, with here and there a wild flower, gleaming from 
its green, and making of it a beautiful carpet of the richest 
and most various texture. A small tree rose from the centre 
of a clump around which a wild grape gadded luxuriantly; and 
with an incoherent sense of what she saw, she lingered before 
the little cluster, seeming to survey that which, though it 
seemed to fix her eye, yet failed to fill her thought. Her 
mind wandered — her soul was far away; and the objects in 
her vision were far other than those which occupied her imag- 
ination. Things grew indistinct beneath her eye. The eye 
rather slept than saw. The musing spirit had given holiday to 
the ordinary senses, and took no heed of the forms that rose, 
and floated, or glided away, before them. In this way, the 
leaf detached made no impression upon the sight that was yet 
bent upon it; she saw not the bird, though it whirled, un- 
troubled by a fear, in wanton circles around her head — ^and the 
black-snake, with the rapidity of an arrow, darted over her 
path without arousing a single terror in the form that other- 
wise would have shivered at its mere appearance. And yet, 
though thus indistinct were all things around her to the musing 
mind of the maiden, her eye was yet singularly fixed — fas- 
tened, as it were, to a single spot — ^gathered and controlled by 
a single object, and glazed, apparently, beneath a curious 
fascination. Before the maiden rose a little clump of bushes, 
bright tangled leaves flaunting wide in glossiest green with 
vines trailing over them, thickly decked with blue and crim- 
son flowers. Her eye communed vacantly with these ; fastened 
by a star-like shining glance — a subtle ray, that shot out from 
the circle of green leaves — seeming to be their very eye — ^and 
sending out a fluid lustre that seemed to stream across the 
space between, and find its way into her own eyes. Very 
piercing and beautiful was that subtle brightness, of the 

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sweetest, strangest power. And now the leaves quivered and 
seemed to float away, only to return, and the vines waved and 
swung around in fantastic mazes, unfolding ever-changing 
varieties of form and color to her gaze ; but the star-like eye 
was ever steadfast, bright and gorgeous gleaming in their 
midst, and still fastened, with strange fondness, upon her 
own. How beautiful, with wondrous intensity, did it gleam, 
and dilate, growing large and more lustrous with every ray 
which it sent forth. And her own glance became intense, fixed 
also; but with a dreaming sense that conjured up the wildest 
fancies, terribly beautiful, that took her soul away from her 
and wrapt it about as with a spell. She would have fled, she 
would have flown; but she had not power to move. The 
will was wanting to her flight. She felt that she could have 
bent forward to pluck the gem-like thing from the bosom of 
the leaf in which it seemed to grow, and which it irradiated 
with its bright white gleam; but ever as she aimed to stretch 
forth her hand, and bend forward, she heard a rush of wings, 
and a shrill scream from the tree above her — such a scream 
as the mock-bird makes, when angrily, it raises its dusky crest, 
and flaps its wings furiously against its slender sides. Such a 
scream seemed like a warning, and though yet unawakened to 
full consciousness, it startled her and forbade her effort. 
More than once, in her survey of this strange object, had she 
heard that shrill note, and still had it carried to her ear the 
same note of warning, and to her mind the same vague con- 
sciousness of an evil presence. But the star-like eye was yet 
upon her own — a small, bright eye, quick like that of a bird, 
now steady in its place and observant seemingly only of hers, 
now darting forward with all the clustering leaves about it, 
and shooting up towards her, as if wooing her to seize. At 
another moment riveted to the vine which lay around it, it 
would whirl round and round, dazzlingly bright and beautiful, 
even as a torch, waving hurriedly by night in the hands of 
some playful boy; — ^but, in all this time, the glance was never 
taken from her own — ^there it grew, fixed — ^a very principle 
of light — and such a light — a subtle, burning, piercing, fasci- 
nating gleam, such as gathers in vapour above the old grave, 
and binds us as we look — shooting, darting directly into her 
eye, dazzling her gaze, defeating its sense of discrimination and 

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confusing strangely that of perception. She felt dizzy, for 
as she looked a cloud of colors, bright, gay, various colors, 
floated and hung like so much drapery around the single ob- 
ject that had so secured her attention and spell-bound her feet. 
Her limbs felt momently more and more insecure — ^her blood 
grew cold, and she seemed to feel the gradual freeze of vein 
by vein, throughout her person. At that moment a rustling 
was heard in the branches of the tree beside her, and the bird, 
which had repeatedly uttered a single cry above her, as it were 
of warning, flew away from his station, with a scream more 
piercing than ever. This movement had the effect, for which 
it really seemed intended, of bringing back to her a portion of 
the consciousness she seemed so totally to have been deprived 
of before. She strove to move from before the beautiful but 
terrible presence, but for a while she strove in vain. The rich, 
star-like glance still riveted her own, and the subtle fascina- 
tion kept her bound. The mental energies, however, with the 
moment of their greatest trial, now gathered suddenly to her 
aid; and, with a desperate effort, but with a feeling still of 
most annoying uncertainty and dread, she succeeded partially 
in the attempt, and threw her arms backwards, her hands 
grasping the neighboring tree, feeble, tottering, and depending 
upon it for that support which her own limbs almost entirely 
denied her. With her movement, however, came the full de- 
velopment of the powerful spell and dreadful mystery before 
her. As her feet receded, though but a single pace, to the tree 
against which she now rested, the audibly articulated ring, 
like that of a watch when wound up with the verge broken, 
announced the nature of that splendid yet dangerous pres- 
ence, in the form of the monstrous rattlesnake, now but a few 
feet before her, lying coiled at the bottom of a beautiful shrub, 
with which, to her dreaming eye, many of its own glorious 
hues had become associated. She was, at length, conscious 
enough to perceive and to feel all her danger, but terror had 
denied her the strength necessary to fly from her dreadful 
enemy. There still the eye glared beautifully bright and 
piercing upon her own; and, seemingly in a spirit of sport, the 
insidious reptile slowly unwound himself from his coil, but 
only to gather himself up again into his muscular rings, his 
great flat head rising in the midst, and slowly nodding, as it 

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were, towards her, the eye still peering deeply into her own — 
the rattle still slightly ringing at intervals, and giving forth 
that paralyzing sound, which, once heard, is remembered for 
ever. The reptile all this while appeared to be conscious of, 
and to sport with, while seeking to excite her terrors. Now, 
with its flat head, distended mouth, and curving neck, would it 
dart forward its long form towards her — its fatal teeth, un- 
folding on either side of its upper jaws, seeming to threaten 
her with instantaneous death, while its powerful eye shot forth 
glances of that fatal power of fascination, malignantly bright, 
which, by paralyzing, with a novel form of terror an^i beauty, 
may readily account for the spell it possesses of binding the 
feet of the timid, and denying to fear even the privilege of 
flight. Could she have fled! She felt the necessity; but the 
power of her limbs was gone! and there still it lay, coiling 
and uncoiling, its arching neck glittering like a ring of brazed 
copper, bright and lurid; and the dreadful beauty of its eye 
still fastened, eagerly contemplating the victim, while the pen- 
dulous rattle still rang the death note, as if to prepare the 
conscious mind for the fate which is momently approaching 
to the blow. Meanwhile the stillness became death-like with 
all surrounding objects. The bird had gone with its scream 
and rush. The breeze was silent. The vines ceased to wave. 
The leaves faintly quivered on their stems. The serpent once 
more lay still ; but the eye was never once turned away from 
the victim. Its corded muscles are all in coil. They have but 
to tmclasp suddenly, and the dreadful folds will be upon her, 
its full length, and the fatal teeth will strike, and the deadly 
venom which they secrete will mingle with the life blood in her 

The terrified damsel, her full consciousness restored, but 
not her strength, feels all the danger. She sees that the sport 
of the terrible reptile is at an end. She cannot now mistake 
the horrid expression of its eye. She strives to scream, but 
the voice dies away, a feeble gurgling in her throat. Her 
tongue is paralyzed ; her lips are sealed — once more she strives 
for flight, but her limbs refuse their office. She has nothing 
left of life but its fearful consciousness. It is in her despair, 
that, a last effort, she succeeds to scream, a single wild cry, 
forced from her by the accumulated agony; she sinks down 

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upon the grass before her enemy — ^her eyes however, still 
open, and still looking upon those which he directs for ever 
upon them. She sees him approach — now advancing, now re- 
ceding — now swelling in every part with something of anger, 
while his neck is arched beautifully like that of a wild horse 
under the curb; until, at length, tired as it were of play, like 
the cat with its victim, she sees the neck growing larger and 
becoming completely bronzed as about to strike — ^the huge 
jaws unclosing almost directly above her, the long tubulated 
fang, charged with venom, protruding from the cavernous 
mouth — and she sees no more ! Insensibility came to her aid, 
and she lay almost lifeless under the very folds of the monster. 
In that moment the copse parted — and an arrow, piercing 
the monster through and through the neck, bore his head for- 
ward to the ground, alongside of the maiden, while his spiral 
extremities, now unfolding in his own agony, were actually, 
in part, writhing upon her person. The arrow came from the 
fugitive Occonestoga, who had fortunately reached the spot, 
in season, on his way to the Block House. He rushed from 
the copse, as the snake fell, and, with a stick fearlessly ap- 
proached him where he lay tossing in agony upon the grass. 
Seeing him advance, the courageous reptile made an effort to 
regain his coil, shaking the fearful rattle violently at every 
evolution which he took for that purpose ; but the arrow, com- 
pletely passing through his neck opposed an unyielding obstacle 
to the endeavor; and finding it hopeless, and seeing the new 
enemy about to assault him, with something of the spirit of 
the white man under like circumstance, he turned desperately 
round, and striking his charged fangs so that they were riveted 
in the wound they made, into a susceptible part of his own 
body, he threw himself over with a single convulsion, and, a 
moment after lay dead beside the utterly unconscious maiden.* 

*The power of the rattlesnake to fascinate is a frequent faith among the superstitious 
of the Southern country people. Of this capacity in reference to birds and insects, 
frogs» and the smaller reptiles, there is indeed little question. Its power over persons 
is not so well authenticated, although numberless instances of this sort are given by 
persons of very excellent veracity. The above is almost literally worded after a' 
verbal narrative furnished the author by an old lady, who never dreamed, herself, of 
doubting the narration. It is more than probable, indeed, that the mind of a timid 
person, coming suddenly upon a reptile so highly venomous, would for a time be 
paralyzed by its consciousness of danger, sufficiently so to defeat exertion for a while 
and deny escape. The authorities for this superstition are, however, quite sufficient 
for the romancer, and in a work like the present we need no other. [Simms's note.] 

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From 'The Partisan.' 

Leaving them to amuse themselves as they may, let us now 
return to the Cypress Swamp, where we left the wounded 
Clough under the charge of the dragoon and negro. The in- 
jury he had received, though not, perhaps, a fatal one, was 
yet serious enough to render immediate attention highly im- 
portant to his safety ; but in that precarious time surgeons were 
not readily to be found, and the Americans, who were without 
money, were not often indulged with their services. The sev- 
eral corps of the leading partisans, such as Marion, and Sum- 
ter, Pickens, Horry, &c., fought daily in the swamps and 
along the highways, with the painful conviction that, save by 
some lucky chance, their wounds must depend entirely upon 
nature to be healed. In this way, simply through want of 
tendance, hundreds perished in that warfare of privation, 
whom, with a few simple specifics, medical care would have 
sent again into the combat, after a few weeks' nursing, hearty 
and unimpaired. The present circumstances of Clough's con- 
dition were not of a character to lead him to hope for a better 
fortune, and he gave himself up despondingly to his fate, 
after having made a brief effort to bribe his keeper to assist 
in his escape. But attendance was at hand, if we may so call 
it, and after a few hours' suffering, the approach of Dr. Oak- 
enburg was announced to the patient. 

The doctor was a mere culler of simples, a stuffer of birds 
and reptiles, a digger of roots, a bark and poultice doctor — in 
other words, a mere pretender. He was wretchedly ignorant 
of everything like medical art, but he had learned to physic. 
He made beverages, which, if not always wholesome, were, at 
least, sometimes far from disagreeable to the country house- 
wives, who frequently took the nostrum for the sake of the 
stimulant. Dr. Oakenburg knew perfectly the want, if he 
cared little for the need, of his neighbours; and duly heedful 
of those around him who indulged in pipe and tobacco, he pro- 
vided the bark and the brandy. A few bitter roots and herbs 
constituted his entire stock of medicines ; and with these, well 
armed at all points and never unprovided, he had worked out 

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for himself no small reputation in that section of country. 
But this good fortune lasted only for a season. Some of his 
patients took their departure after the established fashion; 
some more inveterate, with that prejudice which distinguishes 
the bad subject, turned their eyes on rival remedies; many 
were scattered abroad and beyond the reach of our doctor by 
the chances of war; and, with a declining reputation and wo ful- 
ly diminished practice, Oakenburg was fain, though a timid 
creature, to link his own with the equally doubtful fortunes 
of the partisan militia. This decision, after some earnest argu- 
ment, and the influence of a more earnest necessity, Humphries 
at length, persuaded him to adopt, after having first assured 
him of the perfect security and unharming character of the 
warfare in which he was required to engage. 

With a dress studiously disposed in order, a head well 
plastered with pomatum, and sprinkled with the powder so 
freely worn at the time, a ragged frill carefully adjusted upon 
his t)osom to conceal the injuries of time, and an ostentatious 
exhibition of the shrunken shank, garnished at the foot with 
monstrous buckles that once might have passed for silver, 
Oakenburg still persisted in exhibiting as many of the evi- 
dences of the reduced gentleman as he possibly could preserve. 
His manner was tidy, like his dress. His snuff-box twinkled 
for ever between his fingers, one of which seemed swollen 
by the monstrous paste ring which enriched it; and his gait 
was dancing and elastic, as if his toes had volunteered to do 
all the duty of his feet. His mode of speech, too, was exces- 
sively finical and delicate — ^the words passing through his lips 
with difficulty; for he dreaded to open them too wide, lest 
certain deficiencies in his jaws should become too conspicuously 
notorious. These deficiencies had the farther effect of giving 
him a lisping accent, which not a little added to the pretty 
delicacies of his other features. 

He passed through the swamp with infinite difficulty, and 
greatly to the detriment of his shoes and stockings. Riding 
a smsJl tackey (a little, inconsiderate animal, that loves the 
swamp, and is usually bom and bred in it), he was compelled 
continually to be on the lookout for, and defence against, the 
overhanging branches and vines clustering about the trees, 
through which his horse, in its own desire to clamber over the 

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roots, continually and most annoyingly bore him. In this toil 
he was compelled to pay far less attention to his legs than was 
due to their well-being, and it was not until they were well 
drenched in the various bogs through which he had gone, that 
he was enabled to see how dreadfully he had neglected their 
even elevation to the saddle skirts — a precaution absolutely 
necessary at all times in such places, but more particularly 
when the rider is tall, and mounted upon a short, squat ani- 
mal, such as our worthy doctor bestrode. 

Dr. Oakenburg was in the company — ^under the guidance 
in fact — of a person whose appearance was in admirable con- 
trast with his own. This was no other than the Lieutenant 
Porgy, of whom Humphries has already given us an account. 
If Oakenburg was as lean as the Knight of La Mancha, Porgy 
was quite as stout as Sancho— a shade stouter perhaps, as his 
own height was not inconsiderable, yet showed him corpulent 
still. At a glance you saw that he was a jovial philosopher — 
one who enjoyed his bottle with his humours, and did not suf- 
fer the one to be soured by the other. It was clear that he 
loved all the good things of this life, and some possibly that 
we may not call good with sufficient reason. His abdomen and 
brains seemed to work together. He thought of eating per- 
petually, and, while he ate, still thought. But he was not a 
mere eater. He rather amused himself with a hobby when he 
made food his topic, as FalstafI discoursed of his own cowar- 
dice without feeling it. He was a wag, and exercised his wit 
with whomsoever he travelled ; Dr. Oakenburg, on the present 
occasion, offering himself as an admirable subject for victimi- 
zation. To quiz the doctor was Porgy's recipe against the 
tedium of a swamp progress, and the furtive humours of the 
wag perpetually furnished him occasions for the exercise of 
his faculty. But we shall hear more of him in future pages, 
and prefer that he shall speak on most occasions for himself. 
He was attended by a negro body servant — 3l fellow named 
Tom, and of humours almost as keen and lively as his own. 
Tom was a famous cook, after the fashion of the southern 
planters, who could win his way to your affections through his 
soups, and need no other argument. He was one of that 
class of faithful, half-spoiled negroes, who will never suffer 
any liberties with his master, except such as he takes himself. 

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He, too, is a person who will need to occupy a considerable 
place in our regards, particularly as, in his instance, as well 
as that of his master — to say nothing of other persons — ^we 
draw our portraits from actual life. 

Porgy was a good looking fellow, spite of his mammoth 
dimensions. He had a fine fresh manly face, clear complexion, 
and light blue eyes, the archness of which was greatly height- 
ened by its comparative littleness. It was a sight to provoke 
a smile on the face of Mentor, to see those little blue eyes 
twinkling with treacherous light as he watched Dr. Oaken- 
burg plunging from pool to pool under his false guidance, and 
condoling with him after. The doctor, in fact, in his present 
situation and imperfect experience, could not have been spared 
his disasters. He was too little of an equestrian not to feel the 
necessity, while battling with his brute for their mutual guid- 
ance, of keeping his pendulous members carefully balanced on 
each side, to prevent any undue preponderance of one over the 
other — a predicament of which he had much seeming appre- 
hension. In the mean time, the lively great-bodied and great- 
bellied man who rode beside him chuckled incontinently, though 
in secret. He pretended great care of his companion, and ad- 
vised him to sundry changes of direction, all for the worse, 
which the worthy doctor in his tribulation did not scruple to 

"Ah! Lieutenant Porgy,'* said he, complaining, though in 
his most mincing manner, as they reached a spot of dry land, 
upon which they stopped for a moment's rest — "ah ! Lieuten- 
ant Porgy, this is but unclean traveling, and full too of various 
peril. At one moment I did hear a plunging, dashing sound 
in the pond beside me, which it came to my thought was an 
alligator — one of those monstrous reptiles that are hurtful to 
children, and even to men." 

"Ay, doctor, and make no bones of whipping oflF a thigh- 
bone, or at least a leg: and you have been in danger more 
than once to-day." 

The doctor looked down most wofully at his besmeared 
pedestals; and the shudder which went over his whole frame 
was perceptible to his companion, whose chuckle it increased 

"And yet, Lieutenant Porgy," said he, looking around him 

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with a most wo-begone apprehension — "yet did our friend 
Humphries assure me that our new occupation was one of 
perfect security. 'Perfect security' were the precise words he 
used when he counselled me to this undertaking." 

"Perfect security!" said Porgy, and the man laughed out 
aloud. "Why, doctor, look there at the snake winding over 
the bank before you — look at that, and then talk of perfect 

The doctor turned his eyes to the designated point, and 
beheld the long and beautiful volumes of the beaded snake, 
as slowly crossing their path with his pack of linked jewels 
full in their view, he wound his way from one bush into an- 
other, and gradually folded himself up out of sight. The doc- 
tor, however, was not to be alarmed by this survey. He had a 
passion for snakes; and admiration suspended all his fear, as 
he gazed upon the beautiful and not dangerous reptile. 

"How would I rejoice, Lieutenant Porgy, were yon ser- 
pent in my poor cabinet at Dorchester. He would greatly 
beautify my collection." And as the man of simples spoke, 
he gazed on the retiring snake with envying eye. 

"Well, doctor, get down and chunk it. If it's worth 
having, it's worth killing." 

"True, Lieutenant Porgy; but it would be greatly detri- 
mental to my shoes to alight in such a place as this, for the 
thick mud would adhere — " 

"Ay, and so would you, doctor — ^you'd stick — ^but not the 
snake. But come, don't stand looking after the bush, if you 
won't go into it. You can get snakes enough in the swamp- 
ay, and without much seeking. The place is full of them." 

"This of a certainty, Lieutenant Porgy? know you this?" 

"Ay, I know it of my own knowledge. You can see them 
here almost any hour in the day, huddled up like a coil of rope 
on the edge of the tussock, and looking down at their own 
pretty figures in the water." 

"And you think the serpent has. vanity of his person?" 
inquired the doctor, gravely. 

"Think — I don't think about it, doctor — I know it," re- 
plied the other, confidently. "And it stands to reason, you 
see, that where there is beauty and brightness there must be 

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self-love and vanity. It's a poor fool that don't know his own 

"There is truly some reason, Lieutenant Porgy, in what 
you have said touching this matter; and the instinct is a cor- 
rect one which teaches the serpent, such as that which we have 
just seen, to look into the stream as one of the other sex into 
a mirror, to see that its jewels are not displaced, and that its 
motion may not be awry, but graceful. There is reason in it." 

"And truth. But we are nigh our quarters, and here is a 
soldier waiting us." 

"A soldier squire! — ^he is friendly, perhaps?" 

The manner of the phrase was interrogatory, and Porgy 
replied with his usual chuckle : 

"Ay, ay, friendly enough, though dangerous, if vexed. 
See what a sword he carries — ^and those pistols ! I would not 
risk much, doctor, to say, there are no less than sixteen buck- 
shot in each of those barkers." 

"My! you don't say so, lieutenant. Yet did William 
Humphries say to me that the duty was to be done in perfect 

The last sentence fell from the doctor's lips in a sort of 
comment to himself, but his companion replied : 

"Ay, security as perfect, doctor, as war will admit of. 
You talk of perfect security : there is no such thing — ^no per- 
fect security anywhere — and but little security of any kind un- 
til dinner's well over. I feel the uncertainty of life until then. 
Then, indeed, we may know as much security as life knows. 
We have, at least, secured what secures life. We may laugh 
at danger then; and if we must meet it, why, at least we shall 
not be compelled to meet it in that worst condition of all — an 
empty stomach. I am a true Englishman in that, though they 
do call me a rebel. I feel my origin only when eating; and 
am never so well disposed towards the enemy as when I'm 
engaged, tooth and nail, in that savoury occupation, and with 
roast beef. Would that we had some of it now!" 

The glance of Oakenburg, who was wretchedly spare and 
lank, looked something of disgust as he heard this speech of 
the gourmand, and listened to the smack of his lips with which 
he concluded it. 

He had no taste for corpulence, and probably this was one 

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of the silent impulses which taught him to admire the gaunt 
and attenuated fonn of the snake. Porgy did not heed his 
expression of countenance, but looking up overhead where the 
sun stood just above them peering down imperfectly through 
the close umbrage, he exclaimed to the soldier, while pushing 
his horse through the creek which separated them : 

"Hark you, Wilkins, boy, is it not high time to feed? 
Horse and man — man and horse, boy, all hungry and athirst/' 

"We shall find a bite for you, lieutenant, before long — 
but here's a sick man the doctor must see to at once; he's in a 
mighty bad way, I tell you." 

"A sick man, indeed !" and the doctor, thrusting his hands 
into his pocket, drew forth a bottle filled with a dark thick 
liquid, which he shook violently until it gathered into a foam 
upon the surface. Armed with this, he approached the little 
bark shanty under which reposed the form of the wounded 

"You are hurt, worthy sir?" said the mediciner, inquir- 
ingty ; "y<^u have not been in a condition of perfect security — 
such as life requires. But lie quiet, I pray you; be at ease, 
while I look into your injuries," said the doctor, condolingly, 
and proceeded to the outstretched person of the wounded man 
with great deliberation. 

"You need not look very far — ^here they are," cried Qough, 
faintly, but peevishly, in reply, as he pointed to the wound 
in his side. 

The doctor looked at the spot, shook his head, clapped on 
a plaster of pine gum, and administered a dose of his nostrum, 
which the patient gulped at prodigiously, and then telling him 
that he would do well, repeated his order to lie quiet and say 
nothing. Hurrying away to his saddle-bags after this had 
been done, with the utmost dispatch he drew forth a pair of 
monstrous leggings, which he bandaged carefully around his 
shrunken shanks. In a moment after he was upon his tackey, 
armed with a stick, and hastening back upon the route he had 
just passed over. 

Porgy, who was busy urging the negro cook in the prepa- 
ration of his dinner, cried out to the dealer of simples, but 
received no answer. The doctor had no thought but of the 
snake he had seen, for whose conquest and capture he had 

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now set forth, with all the appetite of a boy after adventures, 
and all the anxiety of an inveterate naturalist, to get at the 
properties of the object he pursued. Meanwhile the new 
comer, Porgy, had considerably diverted the thought of the 
trooper from attention to his charge; and laying down his 
sabre between them, the sentinel threw himself along the 
ground where Porgy had already stretched himself, and a 
little lively chat and good company banished from his mind, 
for a season, the consideration of his prisoner. 

His neglect furnished an opportunity long watched and 
waited for by another. The shanty in which Clough lay stood 
on the edge of the island, and was one of those simple struc- 
tures which the Indian makes in his huntings. A stick rested 
at either end between the crotch of a tree, and small saplings, 
leaning against it on one side, were covered with broad flakes 
of the pine bark. A few bushes, piled up partially in front, 
completed the structure, which formed no bad sample of the 
mode of hutting it, winter and summer, in the swamps and 
forests of the South, by the partisan warriors. In the rear 
of the fabric stood a huge cypress, from the hollow of which 
at the moment when the sentinel and Porgy seemed most di- 
verted, a man might have been seen approaching. He cautious- 
ly wound along on all-fours, keeping as much out of sight as 
possible, until he reached the back of the hut ; then lifting from 
the saplings a couple of the largest pieces of bark which cov- 
ered them, he introduced his body without noise into the tene- 
ment of the wounded man. 

Clough was in a stupor — 3, half dozy consciousness was 
upon him — and he muttered something to the intruder, though 
without any fixed object. The man replied not, but approach- 
ing closely, put his hand upon the bandagings of the wound, 
drawing them gently aside. The first distinct perception which 
the prisoner had of his situation was the agonizing sense of 
a new wound, as of some sharp weapon driven directly into 
the passage made by the old one. He writhes under the in- 
strument as It slanted deeper and deeper into his vitals ; but he 
had not strength to resist, and but little to cry out. He 
would have done so; but the sound had scarcely risen to his 
lips, when the murderer thrust a tuft of grass into his mouth 
and stifled all complaint. The knife went deeper — the whole 

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frame of the assailant was upon it, and all motion ceased on 
the part of the sufferer with the single groan and distorted 
writhing which followed the last agony. In a moment after, 
the stranger had departed by the way he came ; and it was not 
till he had reached the thick swamp around, that the fearful 
laugh of the maniac, Frampton — for it was he — ^announced 
the success of his new effort at revenge. 

The laugh reached Porgy and the dragoon — they heard the 
groan also, but that was natural enough. Nothing short of 
absolute necessity could have moved either of them at that 
moment — the former being busied with a rasher of bacon and 
a hoe-cake hot from the fire, and the latter indulging in an 
extra swig of brandy from a canteen which Porgy, with char- 
acteristic providence, had brought well filled along with him. 



Not in the sky — ^no longer in the sky, 

Where, beautiful as high, 

She swayed serene. 

The centre of her circle, and its Queen — 

Most bright of all her happy sisterhood, 

And by all bright ones woo'd! — 

Secure of homage from fond eyes, that brood, 

Nightly, in spheres below; 

Who, looking with deep longing, feel their wings 

With each pulsation grow; 

Feel with the yearning for immortal things. 

The strength for heavenward flight; 

And travel far, with fancy, to delight, 

Still upward drawn by the sweet welcoming eyes 

That showed them, first, the skies! 


Gone from the skies! In vain 

We seek her beauty through the ethereal plain, 

And the far blue of its mysterious deep! 

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No more — ^no more 

Shall Ocean, in the mirror of her sleep, 

Give back the beauteous image to our gaze! 

And, in our sad amaze, 

We turn from sky to sea, from sea to shore. 

And, as the white caps of the glistering wave 

Flash, as with gems cast up from Ocean's cave, 

We start, with joyful cry: 

We dream the beautiful Queen once more on high, 

The bright one of the sky ! 

Alas! the fond illusion! It is o'er! — 

Not even the sovereign Fancy may restore 

Our sovereign to her throne ! We must go weep. 

That the Bright Watcher may no longer keep 

Her sphere, at summons of the adoring eye! 

Gone ! — ^gone ! 

From sky and earth, from mount and sea! 
There is a void of Beauty ! Never more 
Shall rise the chaunt from forest home or shore; 
The sweet fond homage of most worshipping eyes. 
That swim in sorrow, gazing on the skies. 
Where vacancy makes eminent the void! 
How lone ! — how lone ! — how lone ! 
The bright'st of all the brightest ones destroyed ! 
The lesser loveliness that still is left. 
But shows the greater glory in the Lost ! 
Of this, the one, bereft. 
We are as men at sea, by tempest tost. 
Looking out vainly for the one true star. 
Worth all the host, to teach us where we are ! 


Men need their beacons all! 
Their stars and guiding lights, to save from thrall; 
And, something dearer, shining from above, 
To teach them where to look, and how to love ! 

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For we all rove! 

We are but children in the Desert ! Some 

Never reach home! 

Others, for yet a thousand years will roam, 

Lacking some starry pilot of the sky; 

And so they droop along the path, and die 

Of a drear blindness, never opening eye ! 

Thou wast the Eye to many — dear to most ; 

As central, and the fairest of Heaven's host. 

Thou wast their boast ! 

Oh! did'st thou grow thine own? 

Thou wast their thing of worship and of pride-^ 

By their devotion fed and deified! 

Did'st thou forget? and had'st thou to atone? 

We know that thou art gone; 

Hast left thy sapphire throne; 

And, never again to cheer 

The Mariner, who holds his course alone 

On the Atlantic, through the weary night. 

When common stars turn watchers, and do sleep, 

Shalt thou appear, 

Over all others bright. 

With the sweet, loving certainty of light, 

Down-shining on the shut eyes of the Deep? 

Shall the sky lose 

Her glory, and the ungrateful Earth refuse 
Her lamentation? Shall the Beauty part 
From Nature, and the great void of the heart 
Have never a ministry of Love, whose tear 
Shall soothe the suffering, and subdue the fear; 
Bring precious nurture to the Hope that lies. 
Buried and perishing fast, beneath our eyes? 
Shall no responsive wail 
From the defrauded elements prevail, 
When Night is shorn of Beauty, and the Day, 
Palsied goes staggering on his sullen way? 

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It is not so permitted — so decreed ! 

At each great loss, the world's great heart must bleed, 

Must feel the throes of anguish, and deplore 

The vacancy it feels forever more. 

And can not, by its prayer, 

Or passionate plaint restore: 

For the first time, aware 

Of that wan spectre, whom we call Despair! 

Thus Sorrow broods along the lonely hills, 

And wilder griefs go surging through the floods. 

How vexed the chiding of the little rills ! 

How dread the murmur in the mighty woods! 

In night and silence each sad fountain fills 

Her cistern, and a Spectral Presence broods, 

Blackening their waters! Through the unhallowed 

Steals a stark, shuddering Fear, 

That cowers and crouches ever as it goes, 

As dreading ambushed foes, 

Without the feet to fly, 

The heart to cry! 


See, as the day is spent. 

The Arab leaves his tent; 

Well hath he conn'd, of stars, the mystic lore : 

His studies teach 

A mortal Fate in each. 

Pledged, at each several birth, 

To some lone pilgrim of the benighted earth. 

That shows the path and guides him evermore! 

So, too, the shepherd on Chaldea's hills, 

At evening, home returning with his flocks. 

Looks, from his perilous heights, along the rocks, 

For the one star whose smiling preference fills 

His soul with faith and rapture ; glads his gaze 

With promise of protection, sweet as sure! 

But now, no beauties blaze, 

No smile comes sudden with a sweet surprise ! 

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Vainly he strains his eyes 

For the soft glory that made clear his ways ! 

Much doth he marvel, in the saddest maze, 

While through the sorrowful vault the Dark distils 

Her dews that blight ; 

Lingers in longing, dreaming yet that Nighi 

Will surely bring the expected and sweet light 

So natural to his sight. 

Nor earth alone, 
Nor man ! The sorrow broods 
Above the rocks, the plains, the rills, the floods. 
Afar! Afar! 

In realms of Sun and Star ! 
There, glorious Beings, each upon his throne. 
Join in the common moan ! 
There, where at first she shone. 
Radiant among the sisterhood, the wail 
Streams nightly on the gale! 
Well may they chaunt, in melancholy tone ! 
How should they dream, until her fate was known, 
That such as they are confiscate to Death ? 
That Fate and dark Oblivion should prevail, 
The Perfect and the Beautiful to mar? 
That, like the creature of far lowlier spheres — 
The common blooms of earth — 
Beings of mortal breath. 
As mortal birth — 

The seraphs should be blasted, doom'd to fears ; 
Lose all their rich effulgence, sink in years ; 
Sudden extinguished in some fatal hour ; 
Flash even in falling, and with meteor rush. 
Sweep down their summits, all one glorious gush ; 
Then the dread Darkness, and the horrid Hush ! 
And this without one omen to prepare ; 
Even while the song^ floats free in pride and power. 
And liquid echoes linger in the air, 
That shows all peaceful on the eternal heights ! 
Oh ! in the very midst of dear delights. 

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And dreaming never of such dread mischance, 

The heavens aflush with congregate forms and wings 

That swim together in twirling maze and dance, 

While some superior seraph sits and sings — 

Even then, the wild deep wail! From whence? Oh! 

There! there! 
Over the precipice ! 
Far down the black abyss ! 
A flash ! a glory, shed from golden plumes. 
The Stygian depth illumes — 
A moment, and but one ! 
The gulph's black willows o'er a sister roll, 
And a dread shudder shakes each kindred soul, 
Down-gazing, in their horror, as they see ! 
All their concerted springs of harmony 
Snapt rudely — all the generous music gone, 
And dread and terror now, where joy alone 
Made all felicity ! 
And shall there be no moan? 


Oh ! still the strain, 

As of fresh sorrows, wailing through the sky. 

Repeats the sad refrain — 

Soul-chaunting, and soul- wakening melody! 

The sister stars,, lamenting in their pain. 

That one of the selectest ones should die: 

Torn from the rest. 

When loveliest, happiest, best — • 

Blessing and blest; 

When her own song was sweetest, and her e3re 

Brightest of all on high ! 

That such as she should fall 

Headlong, in all the beauty of her bright, 

From the empyreal grandeur of her height, 

Over such precipice, 

Down to such drear abyss — 

The depths of fathomless night ! — 

May well be life-long terror to them all! 


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Alas! the Destiny 

Clogs over the possession with a Feaf I 

That haunting sense of Insecurity 

Makes every treasure of the heart a care ! 

Even as we cry 

"Eureka ! Soul, be joyful ! It is here I'' 

The bitter, mocking echo makes replv, 

"Where? Where? Oh! where?" 

And the storm sweeps our starbeam from the sky I 

Thus, fastened to the bosom of the Bliss, 

Clings ever a sad caprice ! 

We snatch the flower above the precipice, 

And fall in snatching. Our free footsteps miss, 

While our hands clutch, and, with the treasure won, 

We are undone I 

In very Rapture, a sharp terror abides ; 

Her song-burst carries anguish in its tone — 

Like the deep murmur of the swelling tides, 

Though full and bright, 

No cloud in sight, 

The glorious Moon, in smiles, o'er ocean glides 1 

The Hope most precious is the soonest lost ! 

The flow'r of Love is first to feel the frost ! 

Methinks, all beautiful, of earthly things, 

First die ; and little doth it then console. 

To know that it hath put on heavenly wings, 

And is already shining in its goal ! 

We only feel 'tis gone — forever gone, 

The blessed things we've known. 

And we are lone ! How lone ! How very lone ! 

Ah ! like the bright star shooting down the sky. 

Was it not loveliest as it fell from high. 

And, darkling, left the sphere, 

Now cold and drear. 

It ever made so beautiful and dear? 

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Lithe and long as the serpent train, 

Springing and clinging from tree to tree, 
Now darting upward, now down again, 

With a twist and a twirl, that are strange to see: 
Never took serpent a deadlier hold. 

Never the cougar a wilder spring, 
Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, 

Spanning the beech with the condor's wing. 

Yet no foe that we fear to seek — 

The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace; 
Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek 

As ever on lover's breast found place : 
On thy waving train is a playful hold 

Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade; 
While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold, 

And swings and sings in the noonday shade I 

Oh ! giant strange of our southern woods, 

I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, 
Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean floods, 

And the northern forest beholds thee not ; 
I think of thee still with a sweet regret. 

As the cordage yields to my playful grasp- 
Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet ? 

Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp? 

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The burden of the desert, 

The desert like th^ deep, 
That from the south in whirlwinds 

Comes rushing up the steep; — 
I see the spoiler spoiling, 

I hear the strife of blows; 
Up, watchman, to thy heights, and say 

How the dread conflict goes! 


What hear'st thou from the desert? — 

"A sound, as if a world 
Were from its axle lifted up 

And to an ocean hurl'd; 
The roaring as of waters, 

The rushing as of hills, 
And lo ! the tempest-smoke and cloud. 

That all the desert fills." 


What seest thou on the desert? — 

"A chariot comes," he cried, 
"With camels and with horsemen, 

That travel by its side ; 
And now a lion darteth 

From out the cloud, and he 
Looks backward ever as he flies, 

As fearing still to see !" 


What, watchman, of the horsemen? — 

"They come, and as they ride. 
Their horses crouch and tremble. 

Nor toss their manes in pride; 

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The camels wander scattered, 
The horsemen heed them naught. 

But speed, as if they dreaded still 
The foe with whom they fought/' 

What foe is this, thou watchman? — 

"Hark! Hark! the horsemen come; 
Still looking on the backward path, 

As if they fear'd a doom; 
Their locks are white with terror, 

Their very shout's a groan ; 
'Babylon,' they cry, 'has fallen, 

And all her gods are gone I' " 


'Tis a wild spot, and even in summer hours. 

With wondrous wealth of beauty and a charm 

For the sad fancy, hath the gloomiest look. 

That awes with strange repulsion. There, the bird 

Sings never merrily in the sombre trees. 

That seem to have never known a term of youth, 

Their young leaves all being blighted. A rank growth 

Spreads venomously round, with power to taint; 

And blistering dews await the thoughtless hand 

That rudely parts the thicket. Cypresses, 

Each a great ghastly giant, eld and gray. 

Stride o'er the dusk, dank tract — with buttresses 

Spread round, apart, not seeming to sustain. 

Yet link'd by secret twines, that, underneath. 

Blend with each arching trunk. Fantastic vines, 

That swing like monstrous serpents in the sun. 

Bind top to top, until the encircling trees 

Group all in close embrace. Vast skeletons 

Of forests, that have perish'd ages gone. 

Moulder, in mighty masses, on the plain; 

Now buried in some dark and mystic tarn. 

Or sprawl'd above it, resting on great arms, 

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And making, for the opossum and the fox, 
Bridges, that help them as they roam by night. 
Alternate stream and lake, between the banks. 
Glimmer in doubtful light : smooth, silent, dark, 
They tell not what they harbor ; but, beware ! 
Lest, rising to the tree on which you stand. 
You sudden see the moccasin snake heave up 
His yellow shining belly and flat head 
Of bumish'd copper. Stretch'd at length, behold 
Where yonder Cayman, in his natural home. 
The mammoth lizard, all his armor on, 
Slumbers half-buried in the sedgy grass. 
Beside the green ooze where he shelters him. 
The place, so like the gloomiest realm of death, 
Is yet the abode of thousand forms of life — 
The terrible, the beautiful, the strange — 
Winged and creeping creatures, such as make 
The instinctive flesh with apprehension crawl, 
When sudden we behold. Hark! at our voice 
The whooping crane, gaunt fisher in these realms. 
Erects his skeleton form and shrieks in flight, 
On great white wings, A pair of summer ducks. 
Most princely in their plumage, as they hear 
His cry, with senses quickening all to fear, 
Dash up from the lagoon with marvellous haste. 
Following his guidance. See! aroused by these. 
And startled by our progress o'er the stream, 
The steel-jaw'd Cayman, from his grassy slope. 
Slides silent to the slimy green abode, 
Which is his province. You behold him now, 
His bristling back uprising as he speeds 
To safety, in the centre of the lake. 
Whence his head peers alone — a shapeless knot, 
That shows no sign of life ; the hooded eye, 
Nathless, being ever vigilant and sharp. 
Measuring the victim. See ! a butterfly. 
That, travelling all the day, has counted climes 
Only by flowers, to rest himself a while. 
And, as a wanderer in a foreign land. 
To pause and look around him ere he goes. 

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Lights on the monster's brow. The surly mute 

Straightway goes down ; so suddenly, that he, 

The dandy of the summer flowers and woods, 

Dips his light wings, and soils his golden coat, 

With the rank waters of the turbid lake. 

Wondering and vex'd, the plumed citizen 

Flies with an eager terror to the banks. 

Seeking more genial natures — ^but in vain. 

Here are no gardens such as he desires, 

No innocent flowers of beauty, no delights 

Of sweetness free from taint. The genial growth 

He loves, finds here no harbor. Fetid shrubs. 

That scent the gloomy atmosphere, offend 

His pure patrician fancies. On the trees. 

That look like felon spectres, he beholds 

No blossoming beauties ; and for smiling heavens, 

That flutter his wings with breezes of pure balm, 

He nothing sees but sadness — ^aspects dread, 

That gather frowning, cloud and fiend in one. 

As if in combat, fiercely to defend 

Their empire from the intrusive wing and beam. 

The example of the butterfly be ours. 

He spreads his lacquer'd wings above the trees, 

And speeds with free flight, warning us to seek 

For a more genial home, and couch more sweet 

Than these drear borders offer us to-night. 


What I have brought thee is a mystery, 
Framed by a wondrous artist — of the sea — 
Of the green mansions, and the sparry caves, 
The shells, the sea-maids, and the warring waves; 
And stirring dangers; — of the fearful things, 
Monstrous and savage, that, from secret springs, 
Course, in pursuit of prey; and, all night long. 
Keep wakeful but to hear the tempest's song, 
And join in terrible chorus! Would you hear? 
Then let your breath be hush'd, and bend your ear, 

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For he that made it hath the wizard's power, 
To call up images that shriek and lower, 
From hidden caves, and graves, and dens afar; 
His sovereign art commands them, and they are! 


We follow where the Swamp Fox* guides, 

His friends and merry men are we ; 
And when the troop of Tarleton rides, 

We burrow in the cypress tree. 
The turfy hammock is our bed, 

Our home is in the red deer's den. 
Our roof, the tree-top overhead. 

For we are wild and hunted men. 

We fly by day and shun its light, 

But prompt to strike the sudden blow, 
We mount and start with early night, 

And through the forest track our foe, 
And soon he hears our chargers leap, 

The flashing saber blinds his eyes. 
And ere he drives away his sleep. 

And rushes from his camp, he dies. 

Free bridle bit, good gallant steed. 

That will not ask a kind caress 
To swim the Santee at our need, 

When on his heels the f oemen press— 
The true heart and the ready hand, 

The spirit stubborn to be free, 
The twisted bore, the smiting brand — 

And we are Marion's men, you see. 

Now light the fire and cook the meal, 
The last, perhaps, that we shall taste ; 

I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, 
And that's a sign we move in haste. 

'General Franeia llarion. 

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He whistles to the scouts, and hark ! 

You hear his order calm and low. 
Come, wave your torch across the dark. 

And let us see the boys that go. 

We may not see their forms again, 

God help 'em, should they find the strife! 
For they are strong and fearless men, 

And make no coward terms for life ; 
They'll fight as long as Marion bids. 

And when he speaks the word to shy, 
Then, not till then, they turn their steeds, 

Through thickening shade and swamp to fly. 

Now stir the fire and lie at ease — 

The scouts are gone, and on the brush 
I see the Colonel bend his knees. 

To take his slumbers too. But hush ! 
He's praying, comrades ; 'tis not strange ; 

The man that's fighting day by day 
May well, when night comes, take a change. 

And down upon his knees to pray. 

Break up that hoecake, boys, and hand 

The sly and silent jug that's there ; 
I love not it should idly stand 

When Marion's men have need of cheer. 
Tis seldom that our luck affords 

A stuff like this we just have quaffed. 
And dry potatoes on our boards 

May always call for such a draught. 

Now pile the brush and roll the log; 

Hard pillow, but a soldier's head 
That's half the time in brake and bog 

Must never think of softer bed. 
The owl is hooting to the night. 

The cooter crawling o'er the bank. 
And in that pond the flashing light 

Tells where the alligator sank. 

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What! 'tis the signal! start so soon. 

And through the Santee swamp so deep, 
Without the aid of friendly moon, 

And we, Heaven help us! half asleep! 
But courage, comrades! Marion leads, 

The Swamp Fox take us out to-night ; 
So clear your swords and spur your steeds, 

There's goodly chance, I think, of fight. 

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides. 

We leave the swamp and cypress tree, 
Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, 

And ready for the strife are we. 
The Tory camp is now in sight, 

And there he cowers within his den ; 
He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, 

He fears, and flies from Marion's men. 



Oh, the sweet South! the sunny, sunny South! 

Land of true feeling, land forever mine! 
I drink the kisses of her rosy mouth, 

And my heart swells as with a draught of wine ; 
She brings me blessings of maternal love ; 

I have her smile which hallows all my toil; 
Her voice persuades, her generous smiles approve. 
She sings me from the sky and from the soil! 
Oh! by her lonely pines, that wave and sigh — 

Oh ! by her myriad flowers, that bloom and fade — 
By all the thousand beauties of her sky, 
And the sweet solace of her forest shade, 
She's mine — she's ever mine — 
Nor will I aught resign 
Of what she gives riie, mortal or diving : 
Will sooner part 
With life, hope, heart — 
Will die— before I fly! 

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Oh! love is hers — such love as ever glows 

In souls where leaps affection's living tide; 
She is all fondness to her friends — to foes 

She glows a thing of passion, strength, and pride; 
She feels no tremors when the danger's nigh, 

But the fight over, and the victory won. 
How, with strange fondness, turns her loving eye, 

In tearful welcome, on each gallant son! 
Oh! by her virtues of the cherish'd past — 

By all her hopes of what the future brings — 
I glory that my lot with her is cast, 

And my soul flushes, and exultant sings : 
She's mine — ^she's ever mine — 
For her will I resign 
All precious things — ^all placed upon her shrine; 
Will freely part 
With life, hope, heart — 
Will die— do aught but fly! 


The birds that sing in the leafy spring. 

With the light of love on each glancing wing, 

Have lessons to last you the whole year through ; 
For what is, "Coo! coo! te weet tu whu!" 
But, properly rendered, "The wit to woo!" 
A wit that brings worship and wisdom too! 

Coo! coo! te weet tu whu — 

The wit to woo — te weet tu whu ! 

The verb "to love," in the tongue of the dove, 
Heard noon and night in the cedar grove, 

Is very soon taught where the heart is true : • 
For the wit to woo, and the wisdom too. 
Lie in the one sweet syllable, "Coo!" 
But echo me well, and you learn to woo — 

Coo ! coo ! te weet tu whu — 

The wit to woo — te weet tu whu ! 

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In every zone is the language known, 

But in spring it takes ever the sweetest tone, 

A something betwixt a carol and moan; 

And if you have only the wit to woo, 

You will do it in song as the young birds do, 

And maidens will listen the whole year through — 

Coo ! coo ! te weet tu whu — 

The wit to woo — te weet tu whu ! 

And never was word, of the forest bird. 

Sweeter than that of the maiden heard. 

When once to the depths her heart is stirred ; 

For she hath the proper wit to woo, 

And the gift of song to sweeten it, too! 

She hath but to coo, and she teaches to woo. 
The whole sweet lesson, te weet tu whu — 
Coo ! coo I the wit to woo— te weet tu whu I 

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[1851- J 


SOUTHERN literature is indebted to the intolerance of quondam 
Swedish authorities for one of the truest poets of this day. 
Forty years ago a Lapland peasant boy wrote a cutting political 
pasquinade which so offended certain public officials of his time 
that he was driven out of the country. This boy was John P. Sjo- 
lander who, for more than a quarter of a century, from the seclusion 
of a southeast Texas farm, has given to the world songs of rare 
artistic finish and melodious meaning. Sjolander was born in the 
little seaport town of Hudiksvall, in northern Sweden, on March 
25, 1851. Compelled to take advantage of such meager opportuni- 
ties for acquiring an education as circumstances offered, he stimu- 
lated his inborn promptings toward literary expression by reading 
such books as were obtainable, and, as poets of all times have done, 
began to write in early youth. At the age of fourteen years he 
wrote "A Winter's Night," a sort of Swedish cotter's tale, in which 
the life and lore of northland peasant folk found place. This first 
effort was well received, and has since become one of the popular 
folk-songs of Sweden. It never has been translated into English, 
an intimate knowledge of the place and people that inspired it being 
necessary to a sympathetic understanding of the poem. Yet it 
should prove rarely interesting, marking as it does the first flower- 
ing of wonderful dreams that came to the peasant boy during the 
long white winters, while he basked before a blazing hearth, and 
drew inspiration from the busy whirring of his mother's spinning- 
wheel. At sixteen years his mental precocity was evidenced in the 
political satire which expatriated him, and which played such an 
important part in deciding his destiny. Driven with his family out 
of the kingdom, young Sjolander began to cast about for some 
immediate means of earning a livelihood. Necessity and the urgings 
of his Norse blood drove him to the sea, which he loved, and still 
loves, with all a poet-sailor's unfaltering devotion. Under the 
British flag the exile served an apprenticeship of several years, 
first as common seaman, later as mate, and finally as master, authori- 
tative papers having been granted him by the English Board 
of Trade. During these years he cruised in many seas, touching at 
inntunerable ports, until his adventuring brought him to Texas, 

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where, in 1871, he settled on a farm near Cedar Bayou, about sixty 
miles from the city of Galveston. In this sparsely settled region, 
far from the din and clamor of the market-place, on a tract of no 
acres, he has since resided, with his brother and the tatter's sons who 
constituted the last representatives of his race. His home is a plain, 
box-like structure, hidden a half-mile back from the bayou amid clois- 
tering trees. Here, since 1871, he has tilled the soil, harvested his 
crops, chopped wood, worked in brick-yards, built ships, sailed ves- 
sels on the Texas coast — and written exquisite poetry. Stranger 
though he was to the mystifying intricacies of English, his genius 
for expression could not long remain dormant. Availing himself 
of such leisure as respite from exacting manual labor granted, he 
set himself seriously at work to master the language, and to such 
purpose that in 1885 we find him writing steadily for the American 
press, his earliest efforts appearing in New York papers and periodi- 
cals under various pen-names. Among the first discriminating critics 
to recognize the value of the new poet's work was the editor of the 
old Peterson's Magazine, at that time one of the most prominent and 
popular in the United States. This editor not only published much 
of Sjolander's work, but gave the young poet every encouragement. 
Since that time the poems of Sjolander have found place in many 
of the leading journals of this country and Europe, and his circle 
of appreciative readers has steadily widened with the years. The 
felicity with which he employs a language mastered after reaching 
manhood's estate provokes an admiration akin to wonder, which is 
further enhanced by the knowledge that this unobtrusive Texan is 
one of the few poets of the century who writes with equal ease in 
English, Spanish, Swedish, Danish, Norwegian, Italian, French, and 
German. Doubtless much of the strength and beauty of his work in 
English is attributable to such rare linguistic attainments. 

The student of Sjolander's poetry is impressed, first of all, with 
its unsurpassed lucidity. Wordsworthian in simplicity of diction, the 
poems leave not a momentary doubt as to their author's intended 
meaning. Little use is made of those fanciful and impressionistic 
touches which the present-day poet so studiously affects. Sjolander, 
apparently, scorns such tyro tricks of embellishment His poems 
are the products of maturity. They are plain, unpretentious, and 
often ruggedly simple, like his daily existence. They convey the 
impression that the author has something to say, and says it in the 
fewest, strongest words possiblcr His thought is deep and deliberate ; 
his message direct and convincing. There is, too, a finality of treat- 
ment that denotes the true artist, who fashions his poems to suit 
himself, without regard to the popular demands of the time. A 
scholarly repression is notable in his treatment of classic themes. 

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Such poems as "The Cry of Tantalus'* and "To Daphne, Dead" are 
suggestive of sculptured beauty. But it is not upon these that 
Sjolander's achievement rests. It is as a poet of the soil that he is 
entitled to fellowship with the heart-singers of all times. His songs 
of the furrow and fireside ring true, and, in common with such 
songs from time immemorial, find surest haven in the great, warm 
heart of humanity. For Sjolander sings best of the things he knows 
most intimately. To him, as to that other poet-plowman, Robert 
Bums, the common wayside things are dearest, and hold at their 
hearts truths as old and new and unchanging as the universe. Loving 
most the things of earth, he has taken spiritual root in the soil and 
drawn sustenance therefrom. His poems are redolent of the new- 
turned mold, the wild-rose hedge, and the shadowy summer woods. 
In them are echoed the eloquent and myriad voices of nature, and 
always a deep and abiding faith in the humaneness of God and the 
God-likeness of humanity. Excellent examples of his truest work are 
to be found in "The Rain Frog," "The Husbandman," "To a Fire- 
fly," and "A Clod." It would be idle to assert that any of these are 
flawless. For they are human, vitally human, and hence fall short 
of perfection. Little of that cloying quality termed passion is to be 
found in them. Yet at their core throbs always a warmth of feeling 
and catholicity of sympathy that quicken them with enduring vitality. 
Not often does the reader find greater depth and delicacy of senti- 
ment than are to be felt in the incomparable little love-poem, "Eileen 
and I," or thrill to more sonorous organ-tones than the "Song of 
Moloch" outrolls. Strange songs, these two, to come from a peasant- 
poet: the one of a dream-realm of romance; the other of a warring 
world of greed with which the singer has little in common. Yet 
they are striking examples of a remarkable versatility. 

As might be expected, Sjolander never has taken himself seri- 
ously. He declares himself a farmer, not a poet Always he has 
written through sheer love of creating, and never has sought to turn 
his gift into fame or profit. Of late years he has written little, such 
work as he has produced being contributed freely to Texas newspa- 
pers and widely-scattered publications throughout the United States. 
His work, for the most part, has been fugitive, and never has been 
collected in a volume. But the time seems near at hand when such 
a volume will be demanded. Just how lofty a place will be accorded 
this unobtrusive yet genuine singer cannot be foretold. Certainly it 
win be a secure and honoiable one. For that he will surely come 
into his own, while many of the widely-acclaimed pretenders of this 
time are buried in charitable oblivion, is a prophecy that shall not 
lack fulfilment. g ^^ g^ 

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God bless the one who makes our hearts believe 
That in some special way our lives are blest. 

What does it matter that his words deceive, 
If so he soothes the smallest care to rest? 

God bless his creed, we say, for it is sweet 

To be made happy — even by deceit. 

God bless the one, we say, who has the power 
To shake our shackles off, and break the bars, 

And loose us, earth-bound, for one little hour 
To soar, as in a dream, among the stars. 

God bless his creed, we say, though counterfeit. 

For that it makes the earth-bound soul forget. 

God bless the one, who, when the sky is gray, 
By sweet persuadings proves it bright and blue ; 

And says mankind grows better every day, 
And we believe it, and grow better, too. 

God bless his creed, we say, although it seems 

That its philosophy is built on dreams. 


Eileen and I (ah! we had just been wed)' 
Sat hand in hand beside the summer sea, 

Eileen's Leon had two long years been dead. 
And Marjory was more than dead to me. 

But we, Eileen and I, had just been wed, 

And had no thought of dead or more than dead. 

Had we not planned that day a pleasant way 
Wherein our feet should tread — a way of bliss? 

Each waiting what the other's lips would say. 
To whisper "yes" and seal it with a kiss? 

Yes, we had planned that day a pleasant way. 

Where death and more than death should never stray. 

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We sat, Eileen and I, beside the sea, 

*Yond which the horned moon was slipping down. 
It seemed the waters shivered — or did we? 

But well I know the wide sea wore a frown. 
And there we clung, beside the frowning sea, 
I to Eileen, and she more close to me. 

And so close-clasp'd we sat, Eileen and I, 
And watched the evening star sink low the whfle; 

Until at last we saw it fade and die 
Beyond a little silvery cloudland isle. 

And we were lovers there, Eileen and I, 

But oh ! so timorous, and knew not why. 

Besides the stars to watch us there were none. 
And they were peeping in the rippled sea; 

And so, by stealth (as in a dream 'twas done) 
I kissed Eileen and thought her Marjory; 

And she sweet-blushing, dreaming, sighed, Leon! — 

Besides the stars to watch us there were none. 


The silence comes from God, 

As song goes out from man. 
It is the benediction after praise and prayer; 
It fills the soul with peace sweeter than loving words; 

And rests the weary heart 

Beyond the power of sleep. 
Tis softer than the hush that flows from mother-eyes 
When on the trembling lip love's tender crooning dies. 

Silence is not afar. 

Except to those afar 
From Nature, Song, and God. Silence is Nature's God, 
Deep and mysterious. The God-part of the song 

Is its sweet silences ; 

The words between are ours. 
Nature, and Song, and God. Thrice blest is he who dwells 
Where God in these works out His wondrous miracles. 

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The silence is not mute; 

It speaks the love divine. 
The silence is not still. Wide worlds are wrought in it ; 
It is the strength that folds and holds them in deep space ; 

It is the power that swings 

Them up, and down, and up; 
It is the God in us that comes when murmurings cease, 
And blesses heart and soul with trust, and rest, and peace. 


The Phrygian marble in the palace wall 

Grows lusterless, and shows each morning dimmer; 
The Sheban gold, that lines the spacious hall. 

Has lost the rosy light and merry glimmer; 
The ringing laughters turn to mocking jeers, 
Smiles to grimaces, and the joys to tears. 

Fit for fastidious gods the feast is spread. 
And though desire is keen it lies untasted; 

Brimful the golden bowl glows warm and red, 

And, though athirst, it stales untouched and wasted; 

The mildest jest leaves blisters on the tongue. 

The sweetest song turns to discord when sung. 

The cymbals sound, inviting to the dance, 

The maidens smile, their eyes for favors pleading; 

And though most warily the feet advance. 
Pleasure, as wary, ever keeps receding ; - 

The glad hand lifted meets no outstretched hand, 

The good it holds slips out of it like sand. 

The splendid gardens are a lure and snare. 
The silver fountains flow, but flow denying; 

For once, ahunger, Pelops pleaded there 
And was denied, and hungered until dying; 

The crystal cup from longing lips is thrust, 

The rose decays, the apple turns to dust. 

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The gnomes from field and forest, mart and fnine, 
Have piled the red gold up from vault to steeple; 

To keep is human, and to give divine — 
The overflow shall go to bless the People; 

The red gold gleams like fire in baleful eyes. 

The mellow tinkling turns to human cries. 

The gods may not forgive, as mortals may. 
The scoff from even him they long befriended; 

A thousand deaths cannot their wrath allay — 
They must be just, and most when most offended ; 

So Tantalus, whom heav'n and earth deny. 

Is cursed with life, and doomed to never die. 


Oh I the heart is sad in the Babel of song, 

And sighs for the solitudes. 
Where the silences dwell, and the vistas are long, 

Through glimmering bayous and woods; 
And where, when the day and its duties are done, 
Its sigh, and the song of the stars, are one. 

Oh! the heart is sad within Babel bowers, 
Which Art made to blossom and bloom ; 

And it longs for the home of the God-made flowers. 
For their fragrance and wild perfume, 

Which ever ascends through the pure, sweet air, 

A paean of praise, and a breath of prayer. 

Oh! the heart is sad in the Babel of pride. 

And sad at its temple door, 
And cries to be where the fields are wide 

And the big blue sky bends o'er ; 
To walk near God, and to say its prayers. 
And not be denied for the garb it wears. 

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O distances immense! 

Vast is the world and wide, 
Yet ye must hold me back, 

And press from every side. 
*Tis narrow here and close; 

I call but none respond, 
Open, O distances, 

A way to the beyond. 

Ye push your level lengths 

Against steep skies afar — 
Long lengths that brightly gleam, 

Only the more to bar ; 
And I am kept apart 

From where the joyous are, 
That smile within the dawn. 

And sing 'neath evening's star. 

O distances that bind! 

Like ye there are no walls ; 
Across your shining deeps 

In vain the captive calls. 
Tis human to cry out, 

Even when none is near, 
For in the human heart 

Hope is more strong than fean 

And so I shall not cease, 

But conquer fear with hope. 
And cry 'neath sun and star 

Until the wide deeps ope — 
Until some vision come, 

Until some voice respond 
Across the distances, 

And bid me come Beyond. 

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Blood binds us close in kinship, man to man, 

Through prejudice and pride, a narrow clan; 

But there's a kinship runs through all mankind 

That knows nor time nor place — ^that of the mind; 

There chance of birth, and ancestries severe, 

Can not keep one afar, and one more near 

And so the world of mind as one mind turns, 

And claims close kinship with the Scotch through Bums. 

For he that sang of love beside the Ayr 

Still sings of love as it is ever3rwhere; 

He knew its meaning, and he told the spell 

In magic numbers like none else can tell; 

He felt its pleasure, and he felt its pain 

And sang the songs that sing themselves again; 

And so the world of love a lover turns, 

And claims close kinship with the Scotch through Bums. 

He sang of toil, and through his gift of song 

Has made it high and holy, pure and strong; 

He sang the "riches" that the poor are lent. 

And turned them into jewels of content; 

And showed the world that there is more of worth 

In sturdy manhood than in blood or birth; 

And so a world of workers heartened turns. 

And claims close kinship with the Scotch through Bums. 

He had his frailties, and so have we; 

We know what is resisted, so did he ; 

Perhaps he erred because of his keen wit. 

But who that have it muchly cares who's hit? 

He sinned, maybe, but One will take his part. 

As He will ours, when He ransacks the heart. 

And so a world of hearts as one heart turns. 

And claims close kinship with the Scotch through Bums. 

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The man-made god of God-made man I sit and sing elate ; 
A million feet the pedals press — ^the organ sings their fate ; 
For men that come to where I dwell, drawn by the power I 

Must press the pedals as they pass — ^must tread them every day. 

My temples top the vernal hills, and weight the fruitful plain, 
And where their towering spires are reared, supreme I rule 

and reign; 
For men may own the living God with lips that idly part. 
But in my keeping is the soul, my law is in the heart. 

My fame is gone all through the earth, my temples loom afar ; 
My praise is sung in harvest-fields where peace and plenty are ; 
For eyes have seen my altar fires across the heavens flare, 
And followed where their smoke rose up like pillars in the air. 

By fires at night, by clouds at day, my worshipers are led, 
And louder does the organ roar as they the pedals tread ; 
For silence is the attribute of God and Love divine. 
But the unholy sound of strife — the song of death — is mine. 

And how I glory in my sway, from which none dares to swerve, 
Tis death to them that turn away, and death to them that 

For I am the ingratitude of man personified, 
And as his Maker he denies, so, too, is he denied. 

There is no love behind my law, no mercy in my creed ; 
The tender thoughts that blossom here bear bitter fruit and 

For man-made gods more cruel are than ever man dared be. 
And Moloch never yet revoked what once he did decree. 

And yet it seems beyond my song, beyond the organ's blare, 
There is a place, a paradise, a land of dreams, somewhere, 
Whence comes a song a mother sings, a gleam of one who 

Stealing its way into the heart o'er unremembered miles. 

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But ho! press on ye million feet, and make the organ roar; 
Heap up the sacrificial fires, and bring more victims — ^more I 
For Moloch hungers for the feast, his high priest swings the 

Come, fee the god that ye have made! More life, more life, 

more life! 


In Tempers vale how sweet it is to dream! 

There are no dreams like those in Tempe's vale ! 
The coming joys on lips rose-wreathed gleam. 

White brows are bared unto the kiss-soft gale. 
And splendid gods amid their high delights 

Seem not uncaring, for their glances go. 
Flashing with love, from far Olympian heights 

Down to the dreamer in the vale below. 

O Tempel Tempel Tempe! Nor dreams nor visions waken; 
Olympus looms up darkly, cloud-swept and god-forsaken. 

'Tis good to meet on Ossa's simny slope 

The glance of Daphne, when the day is young, 
For she is fairer than the fairest hope, 

A song's delight more sweet than ever sung; 
Her tresses, wind-blown, are more bright than day, 

Her feet white glimmer in the sparkling dew; 
Wooed, but unwon, she darts away, away, 

A thing of beauty that gods might pursue. 

O Ossa ! Ossa ! Ossa ! Places nor prospects gladden ; 

The morning light has faded, and wakening memories sadden. 

In Thessaly the golden, fountain-sprayed. 

The air is arduous and tense with strength. 
The foot is swift, the heart is undismayed, 

Through winding ways, unfolding length to length ; 
And Daphne, fleeing, shows her rosy heel, 

And sweet perfume flows from her wind-blown hair ; 
The gods have felt the rapture mortals feel 

When Daphne's glory fills the morning air. 

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O Thessalyl O Thessalyl No fountains flow to bursting; 
The way winds gray and dusty through fields and meadows 

JFrom high Olympus, down through Tempers vale, 

Past Ossa's slope with dawn and day agleam. 
And through Thessalian meadow, field and dale, 

Life-giving flows Peneios' sun-flecked stream; 
Its voice is luring, and its tide is swift. 

Its way is the one way from Thessaly, 
And gods and men, by Daphne left adrift, 

Look down its reaches, longing to be free. 

O Daphne! Daphne! Daphne! The land is song-forsaken; 
The stream runs slow and shallow 'mong reeds that break, 


I was dry and dusty, 

I was weak and weary; 
Now Fm glad and lusty, 
And the earth looks cheery. 
O! the soaking. 
Laughter-loving rain; 
Soft and silky. 
Mild and milky, 
Grows my golden grain. 

Listen to the laughter 

That my leaves are making, 
When the wind comes after 
Kisses, softly shaking. 
O! health-giving, 
Breathing, living, 
Heaven-pouring rain; 
Come, caress me. 
Kiss me, bless me. 
Once, and once again. 


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Let your hearts be singing; 
Peal your paeans, peoples ; 
Set the joy-bells ringing 
In the lofty steeples. 
Praises render 
To the sender 
Of the joyous rain ; 
Of the living, 
The life-giving, 
Of the precious rain. 



Ah, brother mine, we are uncouth, we two, 
Crude accidents, perhaps, 'neath winter skies, 
In bare brown fields wherein the kildee cries 

Unto the east wind that bites through and through. 

And, brother mine, there is Che cold rain, too. 
And long dark nights when heaven hides its eyes, 
And days to which the sun his face denies — 

Perhaps 'tis best for me as 'tis for you. 

O brother mine, teach me your patience rare 
Through dreary days and nights, and rain and cold; 

Show me the way to trust the will divine. 
That I, like you, some day may upward bear. 
To gladden earth, a flower with heart of gold — 

A little flower from some small grace of mine. 


Some sticks, some strings, a hat, some rags and straw; 

Yes, laugh, old crow, you know now how 'twas made. 

But in your heart own up you were afraid. 
And fearing kept yourself within the law. 
But say, old crow, forget what you just saw: 

There is a live thing keeping in the shade 

For which that scarecrow stood in masquerade — 
It nearly caught you when you shouted "Caw," 

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Fly, fly! old crow. That ever living thing 

Has heard your mocking laugh, and flung its dart ; 

Fly swifter, swifter, to your sheltering wood, 
And there all humbly fold your swarthy wing, 
And say unto your wildly beating heart : 

"Lord send us scarecrows — fool us to be good." 


By ax and wedge and maul, and many blows 
From cunning hands and strong, it came apart. 
Splintered and rough, out of the strong oak's heart; 

And even yet the bruise upon it shows. 

The gray-green moss that thickly on it grows. 
The veiling weeds that all around it start, 
The creeping vines that from its top out-dart — 

Its gnarls and ruggedness help to disclose. 

I laid my hand upon this post to-day, 
As it had lain before upon the rest, 

And found it 'mong them all the most secure, 
And with a soft far voice it seemed to say: 
"Fate with the strong was ne'er the tenderest. 

But only to the strong it says 'Endure.' " 


Ha ! there you are. You do not seem to know, 
Or if you know it, do not seem to care 
How cold the wind is or the earth how bare, 

But keep on scratching, scratching, heel and toe. 

You must find something good there, down below 
The dead weeds and the grass to keep you there. 
Ho! coming out, and singing. I declare 1 

And all the earth so bare, and cold winds blow. 

O little friend, you are about — so long, 
And just about — yes, just about — ^so high. 

Oh ! with a trust like yours in heart so true, 
And with the faith you have, so great and strong. 
Were you as big — nay, half as big — as I, 

What wondrous things were possible for you. 

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All day long a little frog 

Sat and blinked with beady eyes 
On an old and moss-grown log. 

All day long within the deep, 
Brazen, and unruf&ed sea, 
Lay the wind in death-like sleep. 

All day long upon the brink 

Of the fading, dying stream. 
Sighed the flowers for one small drink. 

All day long the birds sang not, 

But sat piping in the trees. 
For their throats were dry and hot 

But at eve, with voice so shrill. 
Cried the frog to God for rain, 
And his voice would not be still. 

To his cry the answer came : 

God spake from the moving cloud. 
Thunder-voiced, with tongue of flame. 

And the rain fell full and free, 

And the flowers drank their fill. 
And the birds sang in the tree. 

And the sun sank out of sight. 

And the wind came in from sea, 
''Neath God's bow with glory bright. 

And that night a little frog 

Sat — and mused the grace of God — 
On an old and moss-grown log. 

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There is a peace no sounding words can tell, 
And there is rest beyond the gift of sleep; 

And silence. Nature's music-miracle, 

With song expectant fills the shadows deep, 
In August woods. 

There is fulfilment of the spring-time's dream, 
And hope's fruition rich beyond compute, 

For hands may touch, and eyes behold the gleam 
Of buds turned into leaves and blooms to fruit, 
In August woods. 

What though the song of nesting-time be hushed? 

There is a time when Love lays down its cares. 
The heart of things as with sweet wine is flushed — 

A full completeness takes it unawares, 
In August woods. 

And then the gold the molten sunshine sifts! 

Its glint and glory smoothes out every frown; 
And by some magic all the earth it lifts — 

Or does it make the sky lean lower down? — 
In August woods. 


The dusk of the South is tender 

As the touch of a soft, soft hand; 
It comes between splendor and splendor. 
The sweetest of service to render. 
And gathers the cares of the land. 

Above it the soft sky blushes 

And pales like an April rose; 
Within it the South wind hushes. 
And the Jessamine's heart outgushes, 
And earth like an emerald glows. 

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The dusk of the South comes fleetly, 

And fleetly it takes its flight; 
But it comes like a song so sweetly, 
And gathers our cares completely, 

For God to keep through the night. 


Awake! for care is over, 
The year leans to the west, 

And every bird's a rover, 
Far from the mother breast. 

The south wind softly hushes 
His voice that was so strong; 

And no more come sweet rushes 
Of bird pipes tuned to song. 

The dust that came in broadsides 
With every vagrant breeze. 

Lies gray on weed-grown roadsides, 
On bushes, and on trees. 

Amid the vine and briar, 

Silent the redbird clings, 
Fluffing his breast of fire, 

Preening his blazing wings. 

And in far fields and meadows, 
And through deep woods and old, 

The white clouds build of shadows 
Cool isles in seas of gold. 

And fancy like a rover 

Fares through a region blest, 
For now earth's care is over. 

And God has sent it rest. 

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11864— ) 


BENJAMIN SLEDD, the son of William and Arabella Sledd, 
was born in Bedford County, Virginia, August 24, 1864. His 
forefathers were planter folk, distinguished chiefly for good living, 
land-holding, and ruling everything for ten miles around. On his 
father's side he is descended from Davis Douglass, a Scotch Cove- 
nanter's son and soldier of 1812, and Thomas Sledd, a soldier of the 
Revolution. In the slave quarters long survived a tradition of 
"Unci' Hartley" who "blowed de fife wid Mars' Tom in General 
Washington's war.'' On his mother's side he is descended from the 
Hobsons, who originally settled near Petersburg, and who, it is 
interesting to note, furnished an illustrious representative to the late 
war with Spain. 

Mr. Sledd's early years were spent in the constant companionship 
of his mother, a woman of strong personality. Though not an in- 
valid, she was never known to enter a neighbor's house, and for 
more than twenty years she never went beyond the gate of her own 
lawn. To the influence of this strong yet lovable woman Mr. Sledd 
owes the deepest and most abiding influences of his life. He has 
paid a beautiful tribute to her in one of his early poems. Next after 
the influence of his mother comes that of the nightly story-tellings, 
when children and servants gathered before the big kitchen fire- 
place ; for, indeed, some of the customs of slavery days on the old plan- 
tations did not really pass away until late in the seventies. The pic- 
ture of the old slave Isaac, which Mr. Sledd draws in one of his 
most characteristic poems, well reflects this childhood plantation life. 

Mr. Sledd received his first instruction in the little "brown school- 
house,** the memory of which is preserved in "The Truants'' and 
in "Alice.'' And from a family of German tenants he learned at an 
early age to read and love Heine, Uhland, Goethe, and Schiller; 
to this, perhaps, is due the German mysticism which critics have 
discovered in his verse. Among the best of his boyhood teachers, 
however, must be reckoned "old Otter's lonely peak," which, like a 
tutelary deity, figures in so many of his poems. 

In 1881 Mr. Sledd entered Washington and Lee University, from 
which, in 1886, he was graduated as Master of Arts. In the autumn 

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of the same year he entered Johns Hopkins University, but at the 
end of the session, because of failing eyesight, was compelled to give 
up his studies. For a year he taught at Charlotte Hall, in southern 
Maryland. Of his life here he has given us a glimpse in one of 
the best of his early poems, "Beside the Chesapeake." 

In the autumn of 1888 Mr. Sledd was called to Wake Forest 
College, North Carolina, as professor of modern languages. In 
1894, at his own request, he was transferred to the department of 
English, and this position he still holds. As a teacher he has exer- 
cised upon the students of the college a profound influence. Him- 
self afire with enthusiasm for good literature, he has succeeded 
in kindling a like fire in the hearts of his pupils. Every year a little 
band of enthusiasts leaves his class-room for the larger universities 
of the North, to pursue there the study of English literature. 

In 1889 Mr. Sledd was married to Miss Neda Purefoy, grand- 
daughter of J. S. Purefoy, one of the founders of Wake Forest 
College. Gose by the campus Mr. Sledd lives, in an old-fashioned, 
big-roomed Southern house, filled, as he says, "with books and babies.'* 
The love of children, indeed, is his most striking characteris- 
tic. He seems never more happy than when bound for the fields 
and woods with a small army of the village children around him. 
One can understand, therefore, why he has written so much of 
children, and why the deaths of three of his own brood have exerted 
so deep an influence on his poetry. 

In 1897 Mr. Sledd issued from the press of G. P. Putnam's Sons 
his first volume of verse, entitled 'From Qiff and Scaur.' In spirit 
and in form the volume reflects the strong influence of Tennyson, 
an influence confessed both in the title, and in the beautiful dedica- 
tory "Prelude." Among the poems is some of Mr. Sledd's best 
verse— "The Mother," "In the Valley of the Shadow," "The Mys- 
tery of the Woods," "Beside the Chesapeake;" and yet the volume 
is interesting chiefly as promising better things to come. The kindly 
welcome it received from the critics encouraged Mr. Sledd to pub- 
lish, in 1902, a second collection of verse, The Watchers of the 
Hearth.* This collection revealed a sure advance both in material 
and in craftsmanship. Most of the poems are strong and beautiful; 
they display a rare command of the poet's art, and a wide range 
of theme — ^witness the exquisite sonnets "To Sappho," "Innomi- 
nata," "The Quest," and the poem which gives a name to the col- 
lection, "The Watchers of the Hearth." The volume, though small, 
forms a distinct contribution to our literature. In 1908 Mr. Sledd 
published his third volume, 'Margaret and Miriam, a Book of Verse 
for All Who Love Little Children.' This is a collection of elegies, 
inspired by the 4eaths of two of his children, who during their brief 

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lives had been his constant companions in wood and field. Most of 
the poems take the form of the sonnet, a form admirably suited to the 
poet's genius and also to the theme in hand, for the several sonnets, 
as small units, are made to reflect the varying moods of the grief- 
stricken mind. 

Mr. Sledd's genius is essentially lyric — ^when he undertakes the 
narrative he is not nearly so good — and he has made the sonnet his 
most effective vehicle. By no means, however, has he confined him- 
self to the sonnet, for he has tried with success many verse forms. 
His poems, as I have already indicated, show a mastery of the 
"versesmith's'' art: they possess, in a high measure, felicity of dic- 
tion, beauty of imagery, and charm of melody. Moreover, perme- 
ating the poems from beginning to end are certain elements which 
render them especially pleasing to the "gentle reader" — a delicate 
refinement, a sympathy with nature, a well restrained mysticism, a 
tempered melancholy, and, above all, an elusive something — ^perhaps 
the poet's spirit — ^which because of its very elusiveness charms the 
mind. It is worthy of note that in each successive volume Mr. Sledd 
has made distinct progress. Already, without a doubt, he has won 
for himself a high and enduring place in American literature. 


From Qiff and Scaur. New York, G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1897. 

The Watchers of the Hearth. 1902. 

Margaret and Miriam. 1908. 

La Princesse de Cleves. Edited by Benjamin Sledd. Boston, 
Ginn and Company, 1896; second edition, 1907. 

Milton's Minor Poems. Edited by Benjamin Sledd. Richmond, 
B. F. Johnson and Company, 1908. 

Benjamin Sledd. Sketch by the Rev. Hight C. Moore. North 
Carolina Booklet, October, 1905. 

Poets of Virginia, Edited by F. V. N. Painter. 

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From 'Cliff and Scrar/ Published, G. P. Putnam's Sons, and used here by 

pennisdon of the publishers. 

Octobte 6, 1892. 

All night I moved about the silent house, 
In grief for one whom I had never known- 
Dying beyond the sea. And in the dawn 
Methought I heard far off a phantom bell 
Ring out one startled, broken peal of woe ; 
And, linking voice in voice, bell after bell 
Bore on the wailing through the darkened land, 
And many a heart that watched and grieved with mine, 
Made answer: "He is gone — ^the last, the best!" 


From * Cliff and Scaur.' 

We found it in the autumn woods 
And bore it home, the strange cocoon, 
To keep it with the secret hope 
That when the hidden life should ope. 
Dear God would grant the one sweet boon 
Which each in voiceless prayer would name — 
Nor name aloud for blissful shame. 

We placed it in a hidden nook, 
And guarded it with jealous care, 
And thought that winter did us wrong 
To keep us from our own so long. 
We were a foolish, loving pair 
Who still would blush in blissful shame 
To speak of joys we soon might claim. 

A startling shape of golden light 
Burst from the strange cocoon one night, 
And fluttered through the open door. 
Just ere the dark-winged angel bore 
God's gift to God's own hand again. 

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Oh, little life not lived in vain ! 

Thy one sweet day my soul counts gain 

Above these after-years of pain. 

And still with silent lips we name 

The boon we nevermore may claim. 


From * Cliff and Scaur/ 

Will they not leave me in peace? — ^Yes, dear, I am coming 

What need of winter's presence at rose-crowned rites of June? 

He brings her home in triumph, the sweet young life he has 

And I could rejoice in a daughter, had I not lost a son. 

Long since God took my others, and now I am left alone; 
For, though I am still his mother, the wife will claim her own. 

How cold to-night was his greeting! He called me simply 

Those old sweet names of endearment so soon he gives to 


Oh, for one hour of the nights when he sat by the hearth 

and read. 
And *t was to his voice I listened, and not what the dull books 


And often I'd fall to weeping — ^and yet I knew not why; 
But then we older children must have our meaningless cry. 

A moment of silence and weeping, and then my tears have 

May I, who have wept for nothing, not weep for the loss of 

a son? 

But why is my loss so bitter? Tis what all mothers have 

known ; 
For, though we still are mothers, we may not claim our own. 

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From 'Cliff and Scaur.' 

Wouldst know the saddest of sad things? 
It is with sleepless eyes to lie 
Watching the weary hours go by; 
Till weariness impatient waits — 
Beside day's grim unopened gates — 
For all the untried morrow brings. 


From 'The Watchers of the Hearth.' Published by Richard G. Badger, and nsed 
here by permission of the publisher. 

Beside my hearthstone watching late, 
I mark the quivering words of fate 
Which over the dying embers run. 

Oh fearful heart, what may they- mean?— 
"That thou thy dearest wish hast won 
And gained what thou hast never known, 
A something thou canst call thy own : 
A love thou shalt not need to woo, 
Or question whether false or true: 
A tender life which thou canst shape 

To all thy nobler self had been/' 
But, lo, the embers fall agape: 
The wavering, flame-wrought words are fled 
With half their meaning still unread. 
And all my soul is hushed in dread, 
To see beyond the threshold wait, 
Like wolves before the sheepfold gate, 
A thousand lurking shapes of sin 
To claim the new-born life within: 
And round its bed a shadowy throng. 
Like those grim gossips which of old 
With woven pace and fateful song, 
Their revels at each childbirth held. 
Too well I know each mated pair 
Of boding spirits gathered there: 


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Wan Sorrow leaning hard on Care, 

And Shame that clutched the skirts of Fame, 

And One there was that bore no name. 

A dreary voice the silence broke, 

And slowly, darkly Sorrow spoke: 

"May not the Mother have her own? — 

Whatever in thee is divine. 

Whatever of beauty thou hast known, 

Or rapture felt, is it not mine? 

And mine this little life of thine!" 

Then spoke the spirit without name: 

"The evil angel of thy race, 

This latest-born I wholly claim. 

And nought may save from my embrace." 

"Oh God, is there no help?" I cried. 
"Is all to my sweet babe refused 
Save that harsh way my feet have used?" 
A sad voice murmured at my side : 
"This being then to me confide!" 
I turned and, lo, the Shining One, 
Whose work is ne'er in gladness done— 
But gladly through that grim array. 
Still following to the gates of day, 
I saw him bear my babe away. 


From 'The Watchers of the Hearth.* 

The sun went down to-night 

A quivering heart. 
Pierced to its core of light 

With a rayless, rugged dart 
Flung from the Titan hands 
Of a shape which stands 
Darkening all the summer lands. 

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From 'The Watchers of the Hearth.' 

No more of work I Yet ere I seek my bed, 
Noiseless into the children's room I go. 
With its four little couches all a-row, 

And bend a moment over each dear head. 

Those soft, round arms upon the pillow spread, 
These dreaming lips babbling more than we know, 
One tearful, smothered sigh of baby woe — 

Fond words of chiding, would they were unsaid 1 

And while on each moist brow a kiss I lay, 
With tremulous rapture grown almost to pain. 
Close to my side I hear a whispered name : — 
Our long-lost babe, who with the dawning came, 
And in the midnight went from us again. 

And with bowed head, one good-night more I say. 


From 'The Watchers of the Hearth/ 

Like a mist of the sea at morn it comes. 
Gliding among the fisher-homes — 
The vision of a woman fair; 
And every eve beholds her there 

Above the topmost dune, 
With fluttering robe and streaming hair. 
Seaward gazing in dumb despair. 

Like one who begs of the waves a boon. 

Lone ghost of the daring few who came 
And, passing, left but a tree-carved name 

And the mystery of Croatan: 
And out of our country's dawning years 
I hear the weeping of woman's tears : 
With a woman's eyes I dimly scan 

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Day after day the far blue verge, 
And pray of the loud unpitying surge, 
And every wind of heaven, to urge 
The sails that alone can succor her fate — 
The wigwam dark and the savage mate, 
The love more cruel than crudest hate — 
Still bums on her cheek that fierce, hot breath — 
And the shame too bitter to hide in death. 


From 'The Watchers of the Hearth.' 

Might each but daim of Time's unfeeling hand 
Some treasure reft of man so long ago 
That fancy's utmost can but dimly show 

The glory of the gifts we would demand — 

What gift were mine? — In that far Lesbian land 
To pluck from some forgotten tomb a scroll 
Writ with those songs of woe and passion — whole, 

In characters of Sappho's own sweet hand. 

Or yet to lie one hour upon the shore. 
While far off come and go the long-prowed ships. 
And watch that hand divine flash o'er the lyre, 
And hear the numbers flow from her wild lips — 
To drink of her dark, regal eyes the fire, 
And, passing, fed no meaner rapture more. 


From 'The Watchers of the Hearth.' 

I sought it summer-long, and sought in vain— 
A presence foiling still the senses' hold; 
As Pan too ardent for the n3miph of old 

Gasped but the reeds chiding in mournful strain. 

A voice it seemed, heard by the moon-lit main, 
A secret left by the midnight woods half told, 
A vision glimpsed athwart the sunset's gold. 

Or fancied in the footsteps of the rain. 

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And would the auttinm too leave me unblest? 
As in a gloomy glen at eve I lay, 
Watching the wind and flying leaves at play, 
Beside me, lo, the being of my quest I 
Strange lips a moment to my own she prest. 
Murmuring, "Follow still 1" and passed away. 


From 'The Watchers of the Hetrth.* 

Do you remember now the autumn day 

When at the stile we silent took farewell? — 
For in our hearts was that no words could tell. 

Long time we stood, and watched the twilight gray 

Wrapping the land, hill after hill, away, 

And close and closer round the shadows fell, 
As if some power enmeshed us in its spell. 

And still the saving word we might not say. 

Then with one look at your mute, hopeless face — 
For passion in such parting must not be — 

Without one kiss— our separate ways we went. 

Would you not call me back? your heart relent? 
I turned and looked once more — only to see 
The cold white moonrays, ghostlike, in your place. 


From 'The Watchers of the Hearth.' 
"The horror of a night watch on the beach!" — From a letter from the Philippines. 

Is this the end of his dreams? — pacing this lonely shore, 
With the strange, dark land behind, and the unknown sea 

before ; 
And the land so still in its sorrow, and the sea so loud in its 

The myriad moan of the sands, and the long, deep roar of 

the reef: 
And somewhere far in the darkness, for ever high over it all — 
Like the voice of one forsaken — ^the buoy's lone, wailing calL 

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Is this the end of his dreams ? — the longings of the boy 
For the pomp of dnmi and cannon, and battle's fiery joy: 
To strike one blow for the right, for a people long oppressed, 
And to lie, if need be, at last, with the flag upon his breast. 
For the battle is not with men, but a foe of mightier hand — 
The unshorn strength of the sun, and the riotous life of the 

Where nature, knowing no master, foregoes her kindly way, 
And a sense of the hopeless struggle is stronger by night than 

by day; 
For tmknown, and larger and closer, the stars burn overhead, 
And the moon, out of dark waters breaking, is grown a thing 

of dread. 

And, lo, across the moonlight the phantom caravels go, 
Bearing the white man's lust, and the long, long years of 

woe — 
The years of rapine and slaughter, the patient land has known, 
Till the hands that have sown the whirlwind must reap of the 

seed they have sown. 
And all around in the darkness, voices lament and weep — 
The mighty shades of heroes swarming up from their un- 
known sleep 
In the gloom of the primal forest, in the vasty holds of the 

deep — 
The daiuitless spirits who followed those quests of glory and 

Lighting in blood-stained splendour the deathless name of 

But the midnight vision passes, and the sea breaks forth in 

its grief — 
The myriad moan of the sands and the long, deep roar of the 

And somewhere far in the darkness, forever high over it all — 
Like the voice of one forsaken — ^the buoy's lone, wailing call. 

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SUSAN DABNEY SMEDES, the second daughter and eighth 
child of Thomas Smith Dabney and of Sophia Hill, inherited 
from a long line of vigorous and cultured forebears the personal 
characteristics and race traditions which eminently fitted her to be 
the exponent of that life of the past which she has sympathetically 
portrayed in 'A Southern Planter/ Her grandfather, Benjamin 
Dabney, was the son of John Dabney, descended from a Huguenot 
refugee, who settled on the Pamunkey River and became the pro- 
genitor of the large families of Dabneys well known in the life of 
King William and Gloucester counties, Virginia. The Dabney men 
have been characterized by administrative ability, ardent enthusiasm, 
and loyalty to family and friends. Many of them have held posi- 
tions of honor in State or Nation, and several have shown marked 
literary ability. Thomas Smith Dabney, Mrs. Smedes's father, was 
related to the Marshalls, Carys, Lees, Nelsons, Carters, and Bever- 
leys, and passed his youth and early manhood in the hospitable and 
cultured surroundings of Virginia country life. Moving to Mis- 
sissippi in 183s, in an exodus of Virginia planters to the rich cotton- 
fields of the far South, he carried with him the traditions of his old 
home. So his household became representative of the more active 
pioneer spirit of the younger colonies, as well as of the older, dig- 
nified life of Virginia. 

The events of Susan Dabney Smedes's life are few, and are im- 
portant only as they formed her character and literary taste and 
enabled her to understand and to interpret, through the medium of 
one man and of one family, the conditions in the South during the 
decade preceding the Civil War and during the reconstruction period, 
from 1865 to 1885. She was born August 10, 1840, at the home of 
her grandmother, Mrs. Charles Hill, in Raymond, Mississippi, ten 
miles from her father's extensive plantation at Burleigh, Hinds 
County. She was one of eighteen children, and grew to young 
womanhood in Burleigh, an old-time southern country home. There 
she was carefully educated by governesses and by private tutors, 
in the branches then considered necessary for womanly culture, and 
was taught by her mother the no less important housewifely duties 

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belonging to an older daughter, upon whom would necessarily de- 
volve much of the management and of the social entertainment of a 
plantation home. When but a child, her religious sense was so 
strongly developed that her father was obliged to ask the clergymen 
who frequently visited the house not to mention the subject of 
missions before her, ''because that child was bent on becoming a 
missionary/' This spirit later found expression in the establish- 
ment of the Bishop Green training-school at Dry Grove, Mississippi, 
and in work among the Indians in Dakota. 

As Susan Dabney grew older, and realized the meaning and re- 
sponsibility of the slave system to Southerners of high purpose and 
strong feeling, like her father and mother, she naturally adopted 
their attitude toward slaves. The kindness and consideration of the 
children of the household for their servants, and their love and 
respect for such trusted negro friends as Mammy Harriet and Mam- 
my Maria, were among the most charming features of the life at 
Burleigh. The story of these early days, filled with home duties, 
but also enlivened by holiday jollifications, by the long visits of 
relatives, and by delightful intercourse with friends of her father, 
such as S. S. Prentiss, Henry S. Foote, and General Zachary Tay- 
lor, is a pleasant contrast to the later times of poverty and sorrow. 

The summers at Burleigh, so Mrs. Smedes tells us in the Memo- 
rials, were especially gay. "The house was nearly always crowded 
with guests. Friends from towns and cities found it the pleasant 
time to visit the country, and there were other reasons for their 
coming, too. It was safe from the yellow fever. In yellow fever 
summers entire households, including, of course, servants and chil- 
dren of all ages, were entertained. Sometimes for weeks, and even 
months, the white family numbered from twenty to twenty-five per- 
sons, and sometimes more. Music and dancing, charades and games, 
cards, riding on horseback, and wagon- and carriage-driving were 
the diversions. . . . One summer we got up a history class, 
and everybody had every morning to sit in a long line in the hall and 
answer in his or her turn a question or two in English history. 

. . One winter we young people and our guests took up Eng- 
lish poetry. It became a rage to study the best English poetry and 
recite it to each other on long walks. . . Anyone who excelled in 
anything that could entertain the company was called on to do it 
There were few who did not catch the spirit of the house, and join 
in whatever was on foot." To a person of cultivated tastes reading 
was naturally a chief form of entertainment. Happily for Mrs. 
Smedes, the library at Burleigh was unusually large and well selec- 
ted, even for those days of excellent private libraries in the Soutlu 
Her reading of English classics formed not only her tastes but her 

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style—a style in no wise original, but simple and dignified, and en- 
tirely lacking in theatric effects. 

In i860 Sttsan Dabney married Lyell Smedes, the oldest son of 
Dr. Albert Smedes, one of the foremost educators of the South. 
During her brief married life of only eleven weeks, she lived in 
Vicksburg, Mississippi. At the end of that time her young husband 
died, and she returned to her father's home. After the death of her 
husband and of her mother in i860, the happy home life was at an 
end. During the war the family lived at Burleigh, until residence 
in so lonely a place became impossible, when they took refuge for a 
year in Macon, Georgia. On their return, the condition of the 
plantation became deplorable, as the money for its running expenses 
could not be obtained. Thomas Dabney had gone security for a 
friend, and in 1866 his property was seized for the debt. The family 
united in their efforts to buy back the place, and struggled in the 
midst of poverty to keep their home. During this time Mrs. Smedes 
was the constant companion and confidential friend of her father. 
She grew to know him in adversity as she had never known him 
in prosperity. Before his trouble came he was dominant, rash, gen- 
erous to a fault, a man of large plans and able in execution, one who 
did not easily brook contradiction, and who did not readily show 
affection; in the days of his poverty and sorrow he grew tender, 
gentle, unvarying in patience and in humility. The debts were paid, 
but the plantation at last had to be given up. 

In 1882 the family moved to Baltimore, where Thomas Dabney 
died in 1885. I^ 1887, Mrs. Smedes, being obliged to choose some 
work as a means of support, went with her sister as United States 
teacher to the Sioux Indians at Rosebud Reservation, Dakota. Here 
for fourteen months she labored earnestly to civilize the Indians by 
her tender S3mipathy as well as by her instruction. Her health, 
however, rapidly gave way under the rigorous climate of the prairies, 
where she and her sister lived on the coarsest food in an isolated 
Indian camp. Compelled by weakness and suffering to give up her 
work, in April, 1888, she went to Helena, Montana, where she 
found employment as clerk in the Surveyor-general's office. In 1892 
she moved to Washington City, having received an appointment as 
clerk in the Census Bureau. For the past fifteen years, however, 
she has lived in the congenial atmosphere of Sewanee, Tennessee, 
where her home, Gladstone Cottage, named in honor of the great 
statesman, who highly valued her work, is a center for the delight- 
ful but modest society of the University of the South. 

Mrs. Smedes has contributed some articles of general interest to 
newspapers and magazines, but as an author she must be judged by 
one book. That book, however, is of so fine a quality, both as a 

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biography and as an interpretation of Southern life, that it gives 
her a high rank among Southern writers. She undertook to tell 
simply and S3rmpathetically the life of a revered father ; she has suc- 
ceeded in giving the portrait of a man of strongly marked individu- 
ality and innate nobility — a man typical of the best product of a 
bygone time and a bygone social condition. With delicate taste, 
Mrs. Smedes has suppressed her own personality and has let the 
story tell itself. From the naive talk of the negroes, from letters to 
his wife and children, from the management of household and plan- 
tation, the traits of Thomas Dabney's character reveal themselves 
until he lives before the reader as distinct a personality as Colonel 
Newcome — forever a faithful representative of the Old South. The 
story is written without regard to strict chronological order, but the 
material is grouped in chapters concerning themselves largely with 
subjects of permanent interest, such as the patriarchal moving of a 
large household of family and slaves from Virginia to Mississippi; 
plantation management, and the management of household servants; 
Christmas festivities at Burleigh; the delightful summer months at 
Pass Christian; the darker days of the war, and the struggle for 
adjustment to new conditions. This all contains, of course, much 
personal detail, but it is also typical of the life of hundreds of high- 
minded men all over the South. The style is simple but vivid, the 
narrative profusely illustrated with pointed anecdote. That Mrs. 
Smedes should have been able to make generally interesting the 
biography of a private person, not widely known beyond the circle 
of his family and friends, shows literary skill of a high order. She 
succeeds in doing this because she understands Thomas Dabney, not 
only as a man, but also as a typical figure in his relations to his 
time and to his surroundings. 

The 'Memorials of a Southern Planter' has, moreover, historical 
as well as literary value. As Joel Chandler Harris says of it: "No 
better, fairer, or more absolutely trustworthy picture of Southern 
life has been printed." By centralizing her story in the relation of 
the good master to his slaves, Mrs. Smedes has made a considerable 
contribution to the history of Southern civilization. She says in her 
preface: "The younger generation will hear much of the wicked- 
ness of slavery and slave owners — I wish them to learn of a good 
master; of one who cared for his servants affectionately, and yet 
with a firm hand when there was need, and with a full sense of his 
responsibility. There were many like him." The book has been 
introduced into the history course of several schools in the United 
States, both North and South, and is quoted as authoritative by James 
Bryce in The American Constitution,' by Albert Hart in 'Slavery 
and Abolition,' and by J. T. Rhodes in The History of the United 

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States from the Compromise of 1850/ Undoubtedly, as years go 
by, it will become a reference book for the period It has given 
to the North a better understanding of the normal Southern attitude 
toward slavery, and to England, where it was warmly welcomed and 
appreciated, a new view of the South and of its people. The work 
of Susan Dabney Smedes, though limited in quantity, will endure, 
because it is an illuminating interpretation of an interesting period 
in the development of American society. 


The Atlantic Monthly, June, 1888. 

The Nineteenth Century. Article by W. E. Gladstone, December, 

The Guardian, February 5, 1890. 
The Literary Churchman, March 7, 1890. 
John Bull, March 23, 1890. 
The Spectator, April 26, 1890. 


All selections are from 'Memorials of a Southern Planter.' Copyright, and 

published by James Pott and Company, New York, and used here by 

permission of the author and the publishers. 

I. Early Days in Mississippi. 

His plantation was considered a model one, and was visited 
by planters anxious to learn his methods. He was asked how 
he made his negroes do good work. His answer was that a 
laboring man could do more work and better work in five and 
a half days than in six. He used to give the half of Saturdays 
to his negroes, unless there was a great press of work ; but a 
system of rewards was more efficacious than any other method. 
He distributed prizes of money among his cotton-pickers every 
week during the season, which lasted four or five months. 
One dollar was the first prize, a Mexican coin valued at eighty- 
seven and a half cents the second, seventy-five cents the third, 

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and so on, down to the smallest prize, a small Mexican coin 
called picayune, which was valued at six and a quarter cents. 
The decimal nomenclature was not in use there. The coins 
were spoken of as "bits." Eighty-seven and a half cents were 
seven bits, fifty cents four bits, twenty-five cents two bits. 
The master gave money to all who worked well for the prizes, 
whether they won them or not. When one person picked six 
hundred pounds in a day, a five-dollar gold-piece was the re- 
ward. On most other plantations four hundred pounds or 
three hundred and fifty or three hundred was considered a 
good day's work, but on the Burleigh place many picked five 
hundred pounds. All had to be picked free of trash. No one 
could do this who had not been trained in childhood. To get 
five hundred pounds a picker had to use both hands at once. 
Those who went into the cotton-fields after they were grown 
only knew how to pull out cotton by holding on to the stalk 
with one hand and picking it out with the other. Two hundred 
pounds a day would be a liberal estimate of what the most 
industrious could do in this manner. A very tall and lithe 
young woman, one of mammy's "brer Billy's" children, was 
the best cotton-picker at Burleigh. She picked two rows at a 
time, going down the middle with both arms extended and 
grasping the cotton-bolls with each hand. Some of the young- 
er generation learned to imitate this. At Christmas Nelly's 
share of the prize-money was something over seventeen dol- 
lars. Her pride in going up to the master's desk to receive 
it, in the presence of the assembled negroes, as the acknowl- 
edged leader of the cotton-pickers, was a matter of as great 
interest to the white family as to her own race. 

The negroes were helped in every way to gather the cotton, 
not being interrupted or broken down by any other work. 
Some of the men were detailed to carry the cotton-hampers to 
the wagons that the pickers might lift no weights. Water- 
carriers, with buckets of fresh water, went up and down the 
rows handing water to the pickers. They would get so in- 
terested and excited over the work that they had to be made to 
leave the fields at night, some of the very ambitious ones 
wishing to sleep at the end of their rows, that they might be 
up and at work in the morning earlier than their rivals. The 
cotton was weighed three times a day, and the number of 

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pounds picked by each servant set down opposite to his or her 
name on a slate. Quite a remarkable feat of memory was 
exhibited by one of the negro men one day in connection with 
this. His duty was to help the overseer to weigh the cotton. 
One day the slate was caught in a rain and the figures were 
obliterated. This man came that night to the master's desk 
and gave from memory every record on the slate, the morning, 
mid-day, and evening weights of each picker. The negroes 
stood near enough to hear if he had made a mistake in any 
man's figures. It was the more remarkable as he could not 
have expected to be called on to do this. In addition to the 
cotton crop, corn was raised in such abundance that it was 
not an unusual thing to sell a surplus of a thousand or two 
bushels or more. A maxim with the master was that no ani- 
mal grew fat on bought corn. In putting in his corn crop he 
made full allowance for a bad season, hence there was never 
a scarcity. A lock on a corn-crib was not known. After the 
mules and horses were fed in the evening the negroes carried 
home all that they cared to have. They raised chickens by the 
hundred. One of the chicken-raisers, old Uncle Isaac, estima- 
ted that he raised five hundred, unless the season was bad. 
Uncle Isaac's boast was that he was a child of the same year 
as the master, and that the master's mother had given to him 
in her own arms some of the baby Thomas's milk, as there 
was more of it than he wanted. He would draw himself up 
as he added, "I called marster brother till I was a right big 
boy, an' I called his mother ma till I was old enough to know 
better an' to stop it myself. She never tole me to stop." 

The negroes sold all the chickens they did not eat. They 
were taken to Ra3miond or Cooper's Well in a four-mule wag- 
on, provided by the master. As he paid the market price, and 
as there was some risk of their getting less than he gave, there 
was not often a desire to send them off if he would take them. 
And he had need to buy all he used after the death of our 
faithful Granny Harriet. Different servants were given the 
care of the poultry, and all failed so signally that Aunt Kitty, 
who was renowned for success in her own poultry-yard, was 
placed in charge. She was given all the conveniences and fa- 
cilities she asked for — chicken-houses, coops, and separate 
enclosures for young chickens. The result of all this outlay 

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was not a chicken the first year, and only one the second The 
history of that one deserves to be recorded It was hatched 
out in the hedge and raised by its mother hen without the 
aid of our accomplished hen-hussy. 

The thrifty negroes made so much on their chickens, 
peanuts, popcorn, molasses-cakes, baskets, mats, brooms, taking 
in sewing, and in other little ways, that they were able to buy 
luxuries. Some of the women bought silk dresses; many had 
their Sunday dresses made by white mantua-makers. Of 
course they had the clothes of the master and mistress in addi- 
tion; and in later years, as the house grew full of young 
masters and young mistresses, theirs were added As the 
family knew that the servants liked nothing so well as the 
well-made clothes that they laid aside, they wore their clothes 
but little. They justly considered that those who had labored 
for them had rights to them while still fresh. Under these 
circumstances it did not seem wasteful for a daughter of the 
house to distribute, at the end of a season, as many as a dozen 
or more dresses that had been made up but a few months be- 
fore. It was quite funny to see among the gallants three or 
four swallow-tail coats of the master's come in at the gate 
for the grand promenade on Sunday evenings, escorting the 
colored belles in all their bravery of hoop-skirts, and ruffles, 
and ribbons, and flowers. Mammy Harriet gives me this 
account of the management at Burleigh : 

"De men had twelve pounds o' meat ebery two weeks an' 
de women ten pounds. Viney, my brer Billy's daughter, had 
as much as a man. You see she was a hearty eater. An' dey 
had 'lasses too 'cordin' to dey famblys — ^a water-bucketful. 
Den some on 'em let dey meat gin out an' come for mo'. 
Marster git 'em mo meat out o' de house, an' den he go out 
to de smoke-house an' cut mo'. I hab see marster out in de 
fiel' after breakfast an' Headman Charles say to him, ^Marster, 
some o' dese people ain't got nothin' to eat.' Den he ride back 
an' hab a bushel o' meal sifted, an' git a piece o' meat, an' tie 
up de salt, an' ride back an' say, 'Charles, let those fellows get 
a plenty of oak bark and cook these things. Here is a plenty 
of meat and meal and salt.' Den dey sot on sometimes a dozen 
pots an' bile water to make up all dat bread. 

"Dyar warn't no chile born on dat place widdout no clo'es 

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to put on. Missis had 'em made in de house. I know I my- 
self mik' clo'es for Nelly chile, eben to de bonnet. I mik' de 
bonnet out o' a piece o' missis dress. She gib five pieces to 
ebery chile at a time. She had two made in de house, de udder 
three she say, 'Make yourself. You ought to know how to 
sew for yourself,' 

"Ebey udder Sunday was draw day. Dey draw de meat 
an' missis lay aside all her clo'es an' her chillun clo'es to gib 
'way — a, pile on 'em. She say, 'Maria, send the servants to 
me in the house,' an' she gib de clo'es to 'em. I heard her say 
to marster one day. There is a beggar-woman here.' Well, 
have you something to give her?' 'No; I have too many serv- 
ants to give my clothes to beggars. Give her some money.' 
He say, 'Very well.' An' he gib de 'oman money. She nebber 
'fused her people nuthin'; nobody warn't 'fear'd to ask her 
for anything." 

One day a great lubberly, stupid negro woman stalked into 
her room and said, "Missis, gib me a dress." The woman was 
uncouth and rude. The little girl sitting with her mother saw 
her get up at once and hand a pretty woollen dress to the 
woman. "She did not even thank you," the child objected, 
when the negro had gone out. "And don't it teach her to beg 
to give her the dress when she asks for it?" Time has not 
obliterated the memory of the gentle rebuke. "Poor thing, 
she has no one to teach her manners, and she has so little 
sense, and no one to ask for anything but me. I was very 
glad, indeed, that she came and asked me for something." 

For some years the master accompanied every wagon 
loaded with cotton that went to market from his plantation. 
He slept on these journeys under the wagons, and sometimes 
on awakening in the morning he found that his great-coat, in 
which he was wrapped, was frozen hard to the ground. His 
negro drivers were more heavily clad than himself, each one 
being provided with a thick woollen great-coat that reached to 
his heel, home-knit woollen socks and gloves, and an enor- 
mous comforter for the neck. No illness resulted from the 
exposure. In the morning a hot meal, cooked by one of the 
negroes — and all the race are admirable cooks — ^was shared 
by the master and his men. 

Until over seventy years old, he was singularly indifferent 

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to cold or heat, or to discomforts of any sort. But he felt com- 
passion for his negroes. He knew that the warm African 
blood in their veins was not fitted to endure what he could 
stand. He never regarded the weather for himself, but was 
very careful about sending them out in bad weather, and 
never did it unless it seemed a necessity. On such occasions 
he wore an anxious look, and said that he could not go to bed 
until his servants had gotten home safely. They were always 
sure of finding a hot fire and a warm drink ready for them 
on their return. 

Every other year he distributed blankets on the plantation, 
giving one apiece to each individual. Many of the families 
were large, and as the fathers would move oflF under a load 
of twelve or fourteen blankets, some, whose quivers were less 
full, would be heard to exclaim over the good fortune of the 
lucky ones. There were usually a dozen or so left over in these 
distributions, and they were thrown in for good measure to 
those who had the large families. "Poor things, they have so 
many children," seemed to my dear mother a sufficient ex- 
planation for special favors that she often bestowed on those 
who had no other claim. Some of the negro men with the 
big families of children had a funny little affectation of feign- 
ing not to know either the names or the number of their boys 
and girls. "I disremember, missis, dyar's so many on 'em,*' 
with a little pleased laugh, was considered a sufficient answer 
to inquiries on the subject on every-day occasions. But not 
so on the days when blankets were to be given out. Then 
their memories were fresh. Then the babies that had not been 
in their cradles more than a few days, mayhap hours, were 
remembered and mentioned in due turn, with no danger of 
being forgotten or overlooked because there were "so many 
on 'em." 

In addition to the blankets, comforts were quilted in the 
house by the seamstresses for every woman who had a young 
baby. The every-day clothes of all the negroes were cut out 
and made in the house; two complete woollen suits for win- 
ter and two cotton ones for summer. For Sundays, a bright 
calico dress was given to each woman. The thrifty ones, and, 
with scarcely an exception, these negroes were thrifty, had 
more than they needed, and the clothes were in their chests a 

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year before they were put on. The woollen socks and stock- 
ings for both men and women were knit in the cabins by old 
women, and in the "great house" by young girls. These last 
were set a task by the mistress, with the privilege of holiday 
the rest of the day when it was done. This had the desired 
effect of making them quick and industrious, and so interested 
that they would be at their work betimes in the morning. 
The clever ones sometimes got through with the allotted task 
before breakfast. 

On rainy days all the plantation women were brought into 
the house. Then Mammy Maria, who was in her way a field- 
marshal on such occasions, gave out the work and taught them 
to sew. By word and action she stimulated and urged them 
on, until there was not on the Burleigh plantation a woman who 
could not make and mend neatly her own and her husband's 
and children's clothes. 

Poor mammy! She dreaded these days of teaching and 
worrying over her big scholars. It gave her the headache, she 
said: some seemed so hopelessly dull and stupid and lazy — 
so unlike herself. Hers was a case both of greatness thrust 
upon one and of greatness achieved. She had grown up at 
my mother's feet, having been about her ever since she could 
remember, and had come to love the white family better than 
her own blood and race. She resented their being deceived 
and imposed on by her fellow-servants, and did not fail to 
inform them when such was the case. This confidence was 
considered as sacred, but of course it grew to be known that 
Mammy Maria was a "white folks' servant." 

She was far more severe in her judgment of misdemeanors 
than the master and mistress. The place that she had made for 
herself was one that would, in a character less true and strong, 
have brought on herself the hatred and the distrust of her 
race. But they knew her to be just, one who never assailed 
the innocent, and with so warm and compassionate a heart in 
real trouble that none were afraid to come to her. From being 
a confidential servant she grew into being a kind of prime 
minister, and it was well known that if she espoused a cause 
and took it to the master it was sure to be attended to at once, 
and according to her advice. 

Her independence and fearlessness in the discharge of her 

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duty, both to the master and to her fellow-servants, won for 
her the affection and esteem of both. In consequence of her 
popularity with her own color, her namesakes became so 
numerous that the master had to forbid any further increase 
of them, on account of the confusion to which it gave rise. 
This her admirers evaded by having the babies christened 
Maria, and another name adopted for every-day use. 

My brave good mammy! Who that knew thee in these 
days, when thy heart was gay and bold as a young soldier's, 
could think that the time would come when that faithful heart 
would break for the love of thy old master 1 

11. Plantation Management. 

With negro slaves it seemed impossible for one of them 
to do a thing, it mattered not how insignificant, without the 
assistance of one or two others. It was often said with a laugh 
by their owners that it took two to help one to do nothing. It 
required a whole afemoon for Joe, the aspirant for historical 
knowledge, and another able-bodied man like himself, to butch- 
er a sheep. On a plantation the work of the women and chil- 
dren, and of some of the men also, amounted to so little that 
but small effort was made to utilize it. Of course, some kind of 
occupation had to be devised to keep them employed a part 
of the time. But it was very laborious to find easy work for 
a large body of inefficient and lazy people, and at Burleigh the 
struggle was given up in many cases. The different depart- 
ments would have been more easily and better managed if 
there had been fewer to work. Sometimes a friend would say 
to the master that he made smaller crops than his negroes ought 
to make. His reply was that he did not desire them to do all 
that they could. 

The cook at Burleigh had always a scullion or two to help 
her, besides a man to cjit her wood and put it on the huge and- 
irons.* The scullions brought the water and prepared the vege- 
tables, and made themselves generally useful. The vegetables 
were gathered and brought from the garden by the gardener, 

*The cook's husband, who for irears had looked on himself as nearly blind, and 
therefore unable to do more than work about her, and put her wood on the fire, some- 
times cutting a stick or two, made no less than eighteen good crops for himself when 
the war was over. He was one of the best farmers in the country. S. D. S. 

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or by one of the half-dozen women whom he frequently had 
to help him. A second cook made the desserts, sweetmeats, etc. 
As children, we thought that the main business of the head cook 
was to scold the scullion and ourselves, and to pin a dish-rag to 
us if we ventured into her kitchen. Four women and a boy 
were in charge of the dairy. As the cows sometimes wandered 
to pastures several miles away, this number did not seem ex- 
cessive. The boy brought the cows up, sometimes with one of 
the women to help him. Two of the women milked ; the third 
held the semi-sinecure office, taking charge of the milk ; and the 
fourth churned. 

There were no blooded cattle on the plantation for many 
years, but thirty cows in the cowpen gave all the milk and but- 
ter that was needed for the house and plantation, and a good 
deal of butter was sold. The pastures were so good that the 
cattle increased rapidly and were sold, a hundred at a time. 
Southdown sheep were imported from Kentucky and pigs from 
England. Everything looked well and fat at Burleigh. The 
master was amused on being asked by a neighboring farmer if 
he would let him have some of his curly-tailed breed of pigs. 
The man innocently added that he noticed they were always fat, 
not knowing, as Thomas used to say, in repeating this, that 
com would make the straightest tail curl. His beeves were 
fattened two years,, after they had worked two years as oxen 
to make the flesh firm. One year they ran in the corn-field be- 
fore the corn was gathered, and the next they were stalled. As 
all the oxen were fattened for beeves after two years of work, 
no old ox was on the place. He killed every winter eight or ten 
of these stalled oxen. The stalled sheep were so fat that they 
sometimes died of suffocation. 

One day, on the occasion of a large dinner, the master was 
hastily summoned to the kitchen, to see there a huge saddle of 
Southdown mutton that had by its own weight torn itself from 
the big kitchen spit, and was lying in the basting-pan. 

During the spring and summer lambs were butchered twice 
a week; or oftener if required. That did not keep down the 
flock sufficiently, and a great many were sold. The hides from 
the beeves almost supplied the plantation with shoes. Two of 
the negro men were tanners and shoemakers. A Southern 
plantation, well managed, had nearly everything necessary to 

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life done within its bounds. At Burleigh there were two car- 
penters in the carpenter-shop, two blacksmiths in the black- 
smith-shop, two millers in the mill, and usually five seamstresses 
in the house. In the laundry there were two of the strongest 
and most capable women on the plantation, and they were per- 
haps the busiest of the corps of house-servants. Boys were 
kept about, ready to ride for the mail or to take notes around 
the neighborhood. There was no lack of numbers to fill every 
place ; the trouble was rather to find work for supernumeraries, 
as already intimated. 

One of the overseers, who was ambitious to put in a large 
crop, begged to have some of these hangers-on sent to the field. 
There were twenty-seven servants in the service of the house, 
he said. 

The land in cultivation looked like a lady's garden, scarcely 
a blade of grass to be seen in hundreds of acres. The rows 
and hills and furrows were laid off so carefully as to be a 
pleasure to the eye. The fences and bridges, gates and roads, 
were in good order. His wagons never broke down. All these 
details may seem quite out of place and superfluous. But 
they show the character of the man in a country where many 
such things were neglected for the one important consideration 
— the cotton crop. 

He never kept a slow mule; all must be fast and strong. 
They were sold as soon as they failed to come up to these re- 
quirements. Thomas bred all his own mules and nearly all 
his own horses — his thorough-bred riding-horses always — and 
frequently he had more than he needed of both. The great 
droves of mules and horses brought annually from Tennessee 
and Kentucky to less thrifty planters found no sale at Bur- 
leigh unless the master happened to need a pair of carriage- 
horses. Two teams of six mules each carried off his cotton 
crop, going to the station every working day for months. It 
was only ten miles off, but the eight bales of cotton, that 
weighed nearly five hundred pounds apiece, and the heavy, 
deeply cut-up roads, made it a day's journey. As the return- 
ing wagon-drivers came up in the evenings they were met by 
other men, who took the mules out and cared for them, and 
loaded up the wagons for the next day. It was not considered 
right by the master that those who occupied the responsible 

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position of drivers should have these labors to perform. They 
had nothing to do but to go to the house to deliver the cotton 
receipts, get a drink of whiskey, and some tobacco too, if the 
regular allowance issued had run short, and then home to sup- 
per and to rest, ready for a fresh start in the morning. 

Hog-killing time was a high carnival on the plantation. 
There were usually about a hundred and fifty or a hundred and 
seventy-five hogs, sometimes more. They supplied the house 
all the year round, and the negroes for six months. He had 
taken out to Mississippi the Virginia art of curing bacon. His 
hams were famous among his friends and guests, as were the 
chops and saddles of Southdown mutton, the legs of venison, 
wild or from his park, the great rounds and sirloins of beef, 
and the steaks cut with the grain. 

It was no waste or useless lavishness that these great roasts 
of beef or mutton were seldom put on the table a second time, 
or that the number of chickens in the fattening coops were in 
the season not allowed to fall below sixty, or that during the 
winter and spring turkeys were on the table twice a week. Not 
only the house-servants, but usually several sick and favorite 
ones, were fed from the table. In addition to these, there were 
almost always the servants of guests and neighbors in the 

III. Holiday Times on the Plantation. 

A life of Thomas Dabney could not be written without 
some reference to the Christmas at Burleigh. It was looked 
forward to not only by the family and by friends in the neigh- 
borhood and at a distance, but by the house and plantation ser- 
vants. The house was crowded with guests, young people and 
older ones too. During the holiday season Thomas and his 
guests were ready to accept invitations to parties in other 
houses, but no one in the neighborhood invited company for 
Christmas-Day, as, for years, everybody was expected at Bur- 
leigh on that day. Oh one of the nights during the holidays 
it was his custom to invite his former overseers and other plain 
neighbors to an eggnog-party. In the concoction of this bev- 
erage he took a hand himself, and the freedom and ease of the 
company, as they saw the master of the house beating his half 

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of the eggs in the great china bowl, made it a pleasant scene 
for those who cared nothing for the eggnog. 

During the holidays there were refreshments, in the old 
Virginia style, of more sorts than one. The oysters were 
roasted on the coals on the dining-room hearth, under the eyes 
of the guests. 

Great bunches of holly and magnolia, of pine and mistle- 
toe, were suspended from the ceiling of hall and dining-room 
and drawing-room. 

Sometimes, not often, there was a Christmas-tree— on one 
occasion one for the colored Sunday-school. One Christmas 
everybody hung up a sock or stocking ; a long line, on the hall 
staircase. There were twenty-two of them, white silk stock- 
ings, black silk stockings, thread and cotton and woollen socks 
and stockings. And at the end of the line was, side by side 
with the old-fashioned home-spun and home-knit sock of the 
head of the house, the dainty pink sock of the three-weeks-old 

Who of that company does not remember the morning 
scramble over the stockings and the notes in prose and poetry 
that tumbled out ! 

The children's nurses modestly hung their stockings up 
by the nursery fireplace. 

Music and dancing and cards and games of all sorts filled 
up a large share of the days and half the nights. The planta- 
tion was as gay as the house. The negroes in their holiday 
clothes were enjoying themselves in their own houses and in 
the "great house" too. A visit of a day to one of the neigh- 
boring towns was considered by them necessary to the complete 
enjoyment of the holidays. 

They had their music and dancing too. The sound of the 
fiddles and banjos, and the steady rhythm of their dancing 
feet, floated on the air by day and night to the Burleigh house. 
But a time came when this was to cease. The whole planta- 
tion joined the Baptist church. Henceforth not a musical note 
nor the joyful motion of a negro's foot was ever again heard 
on the plantation. "I done buss' my fiddle an' my banjo, an* 
done fling 'em 'way," the most music-loving fellow on the place 
said to the preacher, when asked for his religious experience. 
It was surely the greatest sacrifice of feeling that such a race 

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could make. Although it was a sin to have music and dancing 
of their own, it was none to enjoy that at the "great house." 
They filled the porches and doors, and in serried ranks stood 
men, women, and children, gazing as long as the music and 
dancing went on. Frequently they stood there till the night 
was more than half gone. . In the crowd of faces could be 
recognized the venerable ones of the aged preachers, sur- 
rounded by their flocks. 

Christmas was incomplete until the master of the house 
had sung his songs. He was full of action and gesture. His 
family used to say that although he was in character and gen- 
eral bearing an Englishman, his French blood asserted itself 
in his manner. In his motions he was quick, and at times, 
when he chose to make them so, very amusing, yet too full 
of grace to be undignified. He was fond of dancing, and put 
fresh interest in it, as he did in everything that he joined in. 

On Christmas mornings the servants delighted in catching 
the family with "Christmas giff !" "Christmas giff !" betimes 
in the morning. They would spring out of unexpected cor- 
ners and from behind doors on the young masters and mis- 
tresses. At such times there was an affectionate throwing off 
of the reserve and decorum of every-day life. 

"Hi! ain't dis Chris'mus?" one of the quietest and most 
low-voiced of the maid-servants asked, in a voice as loud as a 
sea-captain's. One of the ladies of the house had heard an 
unfamiliar and astonishingly loud laugh under her window, 
and had ventured to put an inquiring head out. 

In times of sorrow, when no Christmas or other festivities 
gladdened the Mississippi home, the negroes felt it sensibly. 
"It 'pears so lonesome; it mak' me feel bad not to see no com- 
p'ny comin'," our faithful Aunt Abby said on one of these 
occasions. Her post as the head maid rendered her duties 
onerous when the house was full of guests. We had thought 
that she would be glad to have a quiet Christmas, which she 
could spend by her own fireside, instead of attending to the 
wants of a houseful of young people. 

In the presence of the guests, unless they were old friends, 
the dignity of the family required that no light behavior should 
be indulged in, even though it were Christmas. In no hands 
was the dignity of the family so safe as with negro slaves. 

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A negro was as proud of the "blood" of his master and mis- 
tress as if it had been his own. Indeed, they greatly magnified 
the importance of their owners, and were readily aflfronted if 
aspersion of any sort were cast on their master's family. It 
was very humiliating to them, for they are all aristocrats by 
nature, to belong to what they call "poor white trash." 

Our steady Lewis was often sent to take us to evening en- 
tertainments, on account of his being so quiet and nice in his 
ways. On one of these occasions he became so incensed that 
he refused to set his foot on that plantation again. Mammy 
Maria informed us of the cause of Lewis's anger. One of the 
maids in the house in which we were spending the evening had 
insulted him by saying that her mistress wore more trimming 
on her clothes than his young ladies did ! 

Hog-killing was one of the plantation frolics. It began 
at daybreak. Every man, woman, and child seemed to take a 
part. Even the one or two or three or four fat dogs that came 
along with each family seemed to know that the early bustle 
was the presage of boundless enjoyment, such as could only be 
brought about by unlimited fresh pork. 

The servants made fires in every direction all over the froz- 
en ground, and round each lire was a merry group. They 
made more jokes and laughed more gayly than on other days ; 
for not only did they fry great pans of liver, and bake hoe- 
cake after ash-cake, and ash-cake after hoe-cake, and eat them 
the livelong day, but when the day was over there was the great 
bag for each man's shoulder, filled with tenderloin and liver, 
heads, and lights, and spare-ribs; and all these good things 
were not counted in the " 'lowance," either. 

IV. The Crown of Poverty. 

And now a great blow fell on Thomas Dabney. Shortly 
before the war he had been asked by a trusted friend to put 
his name as security on some papers for a good many thou- 
sand dollars. At the time he was assured that his name would 
only be wanted to tide over a crisis of two weeks, and that he 
would never hear of the papers again. It was a trap set, and 
his unsuspicious nature saw no danger, and he put his name 
to the papers. Loving this man, and confiding in his honor 
as in a son's, he thought no more of the transaction. 


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It was now the autumn of 1866. One night he walked up- 
stairs to the room where his children were sitting with a paper 
in his hand. "My children," he said, "I am a ruined man. 
The sheriff is down-stairs. He has served this writ on me. 
It is for a security debt. I do not even know how many more 
such papers have my name to them." His face was white as 
he said these words. He was sixty-eight years of age, with a 
large and helpless family on his hands, and the country in such 
a condition that young men scarcely knew how to make a 

The sheriff came with more writs. Thomas roused himself 
to meet them all. He determined to pay every dollar. 

But to do this he must have time. The sale of everything 
that he owned would not pay all these claims. He put the busi- 
ness in the hands of his lawyer, Mr. John Shelton, of Ray- 
mond, who was also his intimate friend. Mr. Shelton ccyn- 
tested the claims, and this delayed things till Thomas could 
decide on some way of paying the debts. 

A gentleman to whom he owed personally several thou- 
sand dollars courteously forbore to send in his claim. Thomas 
was determined that he should not on this account fail to get 
his money, and wrote urging him to bring a friendly suit, that, 
if the worst came, he should at least get his proportion. Thus 
urged, the friendly suit was brought, the man deprecating the 
proceeding, as looking like pressing a gentleman. 

And. now the judgments, as he knew they would, went 
against him one by one. On the 27th of November, 1866, the 
Burleigh plantation was put up at auction and sold, but the 
privilege of buying it in a certain time reserved to Thomas. 
At this time incendiary fires were common. There was not 
much law in the land. We heard of the gin-houses and cot- 
ton-houses that were burned in all directions. One day as 
Thomas came back from a business journey the smouldering 
ruins of his gin-house met his eye. The building was itself 
valuable and necessary. All the cotton that he owned was con- 
sumed in it. He had not a dollar. He had to borrow the 
money to buy a postage stamp, not only during this year, but 
during many years to come. It was a time of deepest gloom. 
Thomas had been wounded to the bottom of his affectionate 
heart by the perfidy of the man who had brought this on his 

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house. In the midst of the grinding poverty that now fell in 
full force on him, he heard of the reckless extravagance of 
this man on the money that should have been used to meet 
these debts. 

Many honorable men in the South were taking the benefit 
of the bankrupt law. Thomas's relations and friends urged 
him to take the law. It was madness, they said, for a man of 
his age, in the condition the country was then in, to talk of 
settling the immense debts that were against him. He refused 
with scorn to listen to such proposals. But his heart was well- 
nigh broken. He called his children around him, as he lay 
in bed, not eating and scarcely sleeping. 

"My children," he said, "I shall have nothing to leave you 
but a fair name. But you may depend that I shall leave you 
that. I shall, if I live, pay every dollar that I owe. If I die, 
I leave these debts to you to discharge. Do not let my name 
be dishonored. Some men would kill themselves for this. I 
shall not do that. But I shall die." 

The grief of betrayed trust was the bitterest drop in his 
cup of suffering. But he soon roused himself from this de- 
pression and set about arranging to raise the money needed 
to buy in the plantation. It could only be done by giving up 
all the money brought in by the cotton crop for many years. 
This meant rigid self-denial for himself and his children. He 
could not bear the thought of seeing his daughters deprived of 
comforts. He was ready to stand unflinchingly any fate that 
might be in store for him. But his tenderest feelings were 
stirred for them. His chivalrous nature had always revolted 
from the sight of a woman doing hard work. He determined 
to spare his daughters all such labor as he could perform. 
General Sherman had said that he would like to bring every 
Southern woman to the wash-tub.* "He shall never bring 
my daughters to the wash-tub," Thomas Dabney said. "I will 
do the washing myself." And he did it for two years. He was 
in his seventieth year when he began to do it.f 

This may give some idea of the labors, the privations, the 

* Thomas had read this in one of the papers published during the famous march to 
the sea. Whether GenerSd Sherman was correctly reported I know not.— S. D. S. 
tHis daughters did all the menial work of the house except the washing. An at- 
tempt to do this resulted in serious illness, and was henceforth sternly forbidden bf 
the father. 

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hardships, of those terrible years. The most intimate friends 
of Thomas, nay, his own children, who were not in the daily 
life at Burleigh, have never known the unprecedented self- 
denial, carried to the extent of acutest bodily sufferings, which 
he practised during this time. A curtain must be drawn over 
this part of the life of my lion-hearted father! 

When he grew white and thin, and his frightened daugh- 
ters prepared a special dish for him, he refused to eat the 
delicacy. It would choke him, he said, to eat better food than 
they had, and he yielded only to their earnest solicitations. 
He would have died rather than ask for it. When the living 
was so coarse and so ill-prepared that he could scarcely eat it, 
he never failed, on rising from the table, to say earnestly and 
reverently, as he stood by his chair, "Thank the Lord for 
this much." 

During a period of eighteen months no light in summer, 
and none but a fire in winter, except in some case of necessity, 
was seen in the house. He was fourteen years in paying these 
debts that fell on him in his sixty-ninth year. He lived but 
three years after the last dollar was paid. 

When he was seventy years of age he determined to learn 
to cultivate a garden. He had never performed manual labor, 
but he now applied himself to learn to hoe as a means of sup- 
plying his family with vegetables. With the labor of those 
aged hands he made a garden that was the best ordered that 
we had ever seen at Burleigh. He made his garden, as he 
did everything that he undertook, in the most painstaking 
manner, neglecting nothing that could insure success. The 
beds and rows and walks in that garden were models of ex- 
actness and neatness. It was a quarter of a mile from the 
house and from water, on the top of a long, high hill, and 
three-quarters of an acre in extent. In a time of drought, or 
if he had set out an3rthing that needed watering, he toiled 
up that long precipitous hill with bucket after bucket of water. 
"I never look at the clouds" had been a saying of his in cul- 
tivating his plantation, and he carried it out now. That gar- 
den supplied the daily food of his family nearly all the year 
round. He planted vegetables in such quantities that it was 
impossible to consume all on the table, and he sold barrels 
of vegetables of different kinds in New Orleans. 

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Oftentimes he was so exhausted when he came in to din- 
ner that he could not eat for a while. He had his old bright 
way of making every one take an interest in his pursuits — 
sympathy was as necessary and sweet to him as to a child — 
and he showed with pride what he had done by his personal 
labor in gardening and in washing. He placed the clothes on 
the line as carefully as if they were meant to hang there 
always, and they must be admired, too! He said, and truly, 
that he had never seen snowier ones. 

Oh, thou heroic old man ! Thou hast a right to thy pride 
in those exact strokes of the hoe and in those superb potatoes, 
"the best ever seen in the New Orleans market," and in those 
long lines of snowy drapery 1 But those to whom thou art 
showing these things are looking beyond them, at the man! 
They are gazing reverently, and with scarce suppressed tears, 
on the hands that have been in this world for three-score and 
ten years, and are beginning to-day to support a houseful of 
children I 

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CHARLES HENRY SMITH ("Bill Arp''), the son of Asahel 
Reid Smith, of Massachusetts, and Caroline Maguire, of Charles- 
ton, South Carolina, was born at Lawrenceville, Gwinnett County, 
Georgia, June 15, 1826. His liberal education was obtained at the 
University of Georgia, which he entered in 1845; but the serious 
illness of his father summoned him home in his senior year. The 
same year (1849) ^^ married Mary Octavia Hutchins, the seven- 
teen-year-old daughter of Judge Nathan Lewis Hutchins, of Law- 
renceville. Shortly thereafter beginning the study of law in Judge 
Hutchins's office, he was admitted to the Bar in three months, 
on the promise of continuing his studies, which promise he kept. 
In 185 1 he took the Western fever, and moved to Rome to grow up 
with the town and country. Here he practiced law in partnership 
with Judge J. W. H. Underwood until 1861. From July, 1861, to 
1862 he served on the staff of General Francis Bartow. His health 
failing in 1862, he received from President Davis, the appointment 
to special judiciary duty in Macon, Georgia, where he remained 
until his return to Rome in 1865. After serving as State Senator in 
the Legislature which inaugurated Governor Jenkins in December, 
1865, he resumed the practice of law, being associated with Judge 
Joel Branham until the election of the latter to the Bench. 

In October, 1877, the family removed to "Fontainebleau,^* a 
farm about five miles from Cartersville, Georgia. After eleven 
years spent here in the congenial pursuit of farming, Mr. Smith 
moved to the town of Cartersville, where he spent the last years of 
his life, honored and loved by troops of friends. He died August 
24, 1903, in the seventy-seventh year of his age. 

His first published work was one of the four letters addressed 
to "Mr. Linkhorn: Sur:" and appeared in the Southern Confed- 
eracy in April, 1861. In the character of a loyal Northern sym- 
pathizer, he addresses a remonstrance to the President against the 
very short "notis he'd put him on" in his proclamation commanding 
him to "disperse and retire" within twenty days. He tells the Pres- 
ident how hot "the boys round here" are — "so hot that they fairly 
siz when you pour water on em" — ^begs the loan of "the Skotch 

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cap and cloak yo« traveled to Washington in/' with other allusions 
to current burning topics, and closes with: "Give my respects to 
Bill Seward and the other members of the kangaroo. What's Han* 
nibal doin? I don't hear anything of him nowadays. Yours, with 
care. Bill Arp." 

Its timeliness, together with its racy satire, caused this letter 
to make an extraordinary hit. It was followed by three others in 
similar vein, which but confirmed the impression first made, and from 
that time "Bill Arp," the son of the down-Easter, became the ac- 
cepted mouthpiece of the Southern people on all questions touching 
the relations of the two antagonists in the Civil War. His work 
falls naturally into two quite dissimilar parts: his letters of war 
and reconstruction and his farm and fireside sketches. The former 
group is chiefly controversial, frequently personal, and quite bitter 
in tone. The latter is mellower, patriarchal, humorously philoso- 

"Bill Arp" is one of the long line of American humorists from 
John Phoenix to Mr. Dooley, whose work consists of occasional 
contributions to the press, of letters and sketches, anecdotes, com- 
ment on current events, reminiscences and philosophical reflections on 
daily life and experience. The dominant characteristic of his style 
is absolute veracity. Nowhere is his himior strained or a mere 
grimace, but it is the expression of his personality in its unaffected, 
unforced sincerity. His art is most realistic. One feels that nothing 
that he wrote is in the least exaggerated or distorted for effect, but 
that all is authentic and genuine in the smallest details. We may, 
therefore, claim for this body of essays the character of a true 
historical document, for in a very real way they reflect the spirit 
and temper of the Southern people from the war-time down to the 
present day. Moreover, his portrayal of life and conditions, his 
anecdotes of local worthies, and his reminiscences of the past, all 
written in his convincing, immediately and fully visualized present- 
ment, give a fillip to the imagination, and enable us to realize those 
times as no mere history can do. For the student of linguistic 
phenomena, also, his writings are highly important; for his dialect 
is of a piece with the rest of his art — completely trustworthy as 
the transcript of the current speech of his locality. Indeed, his style 
is in admirable keeping with his assumed role of bucolic philosopher; 
seemingly somewhat rambling and inconsequential, careless and loose- 
jointed, it is the consummately fit vehicle of his reminiscences, anec- 
dotes, and philosophizings. He who doubts that "Bill Arp" could 
have written differently, if he had chosen to do so, should read his 
letter, "To the Publisher," in his first collection of sketches, entitled 
'Bill Arp, So Called, A Side Show of the Southern Side of the 

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War/ Few writers have gained such a strong hold upon the affec- 
tion of their readers. They loved him for his original humor, for 
his artless confidences, for his prattle about wife and children, for the 
genuine quality of both the man and his work. All classes felt his 
death as a personal loss. An unlettered countrywoman said: "Don't 
Bill Arp tell things the plainest! Fve laughed till I cried over 
some of his letters; for the same things had happened in our own 
family, and it seemed that he must have been right here in the house 
when he wrote if 


Jli^^ r ^^ 


Bill Arp, So Called, A Side Show of the Southern Side of the 
War. New York, Metropolitan Record Office, 1866. 

Peace Papers. New York, G. W. Carleton and Company, 1877. 

Scrap Book. Atlanta, Georgia, J. P. Harrison and Company, 1884. 

Fireside Sketches. Atlanta Constitution, 1891. 

School History of Georgia. Boston, 1896. Presents facts of 
history down to 1893, with sketches of ante-bellum society. 

From the Uncivil War to Date. Atlanta, Georgia, 1903. 

Numerous letters in the files of the Atlanta Constitution, the 
Sunny South and the Louisville (Ky.) Home and Farm. 


From 'The Scrap Book.' 

Rome" Ga., September i, 1865. 
Mr. Artemus Ward, Showman — 

Sir: — ^The reason I write to you in perticler, is because 
you are about the only man I know in all "God's country" 
so-called. For some several weeks I have been wantin to say 
sumthin. For some several years we rebs, so-called, but now 
late of said country deceased, have been tryin mighty hard to 
do somethin. We didn't quite do it, and now it's very painful, 

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I assure you, to dry up all of a sudden, and make out like we 
wasn't there. 

My friend, I want to say somethin. I suppose there is 
no law agin thinkin, but thinkin don't help me. It don't let 
down my thermometer. I must explode myself generally so 
as to feel better. You see, I'm tryin to harmonize. I'm tryin 
to soften down my feelin's. I'm endeavoring to subjugate 
myself to the level of surroundin circumstances, so-called. 
But I can't do it until I am allowed to say somethin. I want 
to quarrel with somebody and then make friends. I ain't no 
giant-killer. I ain't no Norwegian bar. I ain't no boar~con- 
strikter, but I'll be hornswaggled if the talkin and writin and 
slanderin has got to be all done on one side any longer. Sum 
of your folks have got to dry up or turn our folks loose. It's 
a blamed outrage, so-called. Ain't you editors got nothin else 
to do but peck at us, and squib at us, and crow over us? Is 
every man what can write a paragraph to consider us bars in 
a cage, and be always a-jobbin at us to hear us grov/1? Now 
you see, my friend, that's what's disharmonious, and do you 
jest tell 'em, one and all, e pluribus unum, so-called, that if 
they don't stop it at once or turn us loose to say what we 
please, why we rebs, so-called, have unanimously and jointly 
and severally resolved to — ^to— to — think very hard of it — if 
not harder. 

That's the way to talk it. I ain't agoin to commit myself. 
I know when to put on the breaks. I ain't going to say all I 
think, like Mr. Etheridge, or Mr. Adderring so-called. Nary 
time. No, sir. But I'll jest tell you, Artemus, and you may 
tell it to your show. If we ain't allowed to express our senti- 
ments, we can take it out in hatin; and hatin runs heavy in 
my family, sure. I hated a man once so bad that all the hair 
cum off my head, and the man drowned himself in a hog-wal- 
ler that night. I could do it agin, but you see, I^m tryin to 
harmonize, to acquiess, to becum calm and sereen. 

Now, I suppose that, poetically speakin, 

In Dixie's fall, 
We sinned all. 

But talkin the way I see it, a big feller and a little feller 
so-called, got into a fite, and they fout and fout a long time, 

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and everybody all round kept hoUerin, "hands off," but helpin 
the big feller, until finally the little feller caved in and hollered 
enuf. He made a bully fite, I tell you, Selah. Well, what did 
the big feller do? Take him by the hand and help him up, 
and brush dirt off his clothes ? Nary time ! No sur ! But he 
kicked him arter he was down, and throwed mud on him, and 
drugged him about and rubbed sand in his eyes, and now he's 
gwine about huntin up his poor little property. Wants to 
confiscate it, so-called. Blame my jacket if it ain't enuf to 
make your head swim. 

But I'm a good Union man, so-called. I ain't agwine to 
fight no more. / shan't vote for the next war. I ain't no 
gurrilla. I've done tuk the oath, and I'm gwine to keep it, 
but as for my bein subjugated, and humilyated, and amalga- 
mated, and enervated, as Mr. Chase says, it ain't so — nary 
time. I ain't ashamed of nuthin neither — ^ain't repentin — ^ain't 
axin for no one-horse, short-winded pardon. Nobody needn't 
be playin priest around me. I ain't got no twenty thousand 
dollars. Wish I had; I'd give it to these poor widders and 
orfins. Fd fatten my own numerous andinterestin offspring 
in about two minutes and a half. They shouldn't eat roots 
and drink branch-water no longer. Poor unfortunate things ! 
to cum into this subloonary world at sich a time. There's 
four or five of them that never saw a sirkis or a monky-show 
— never had a pocket-knife, nor a piece of chees, nor a reesin. 
There's Bull Run Arp, and Harper's Ferry Arp, and Chica- 
hominy Arp, that never saw the pikters in a spellin book. I 
tell you, my friend, we are the poorest people on the face of 
the earth — but we are poor and proud. We made a bully fite, 
Selah, and the whole American nation ought to feel proud 
of it. It shows what Americans can do when they think they 
are imposed upon — "so-called" Didn't our four fathers fight, 
bleed and die about a little tax on tea, when not one in a 
thousand drunk it? Bekaus they succeeded, wasn't it glory? 
But if they hadn't, I suppose it would have been treason, and 
they would have been bowin and scrapin round King George 
for pardon. So it goes, Artemus, and to my mind, if the 
whole thing was stewed down it would make about half pint 
of humbug. We had good men, great men. Christian men who 
thought we was right, and many of 'em have gone to the un- 

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discovered country, and have got a pardon as is a pardon. 
When I die I am mighty willing to risk myself under the 
shadow of their wings, whether the climate be hot or cold. 
So mote it be. Selah ! 

Well, maybe Fv said enough. But I don't feel easy yet. 
I'm a good Union man, certain and sure. I've had my breeches 
died blue, and I've bot a blue bucket, and I very often feel blue, 
and about twice in a while I go to the doggery and git blue, 
and then I look up at the blue serulean heavens and sing the 
melancholy chorus of the 5/u^tailed Fly. I'm doin my durnd- 
est to harmonize, and think I could succeed if it wasn't for sum 
things. When I see a blackguard goin around the streets with 
a gun on his shoulder, why right then, for a few minutes, I 
hate the whole Yankee nation. Jerusalem! how my blood 
biles! The institution what was handed down to us by the 
heavenly kingdom of Massachusetts, now put over us with 
powder and ball! Harmonize the devil! Ain't we human 
beings? Ain't we got eyes and ears and feelin and thinkin? 
Why, the whole of Africa has cum to town, women and chil- 
dren and babies and baboons and all. A man can tell how fur 
it is to the city by the smell better than the milepost. They 
won't work for us, and they won't work for themselves, and 
they'll perish to death this winter as sure as the devil is a 
hog, so-called. They are now basking in the summer's sun, 
livin on rosting ears and freedom, with nary idee that the 
winter will come agin, or that castor-oil and salts cost money. 
Sum of 'em over a hundred years old, are whining around 
about going to kawlidge. The truth is, my friend, sombody's 
badly fooled about this bizness. Sombody has drawd the 
elefant in the lottery, and don't know what to do with him. 
He's just throwing his snout loose, and by and by he'll hurt 
somebody. These niggers will have to go back to the planta- 
tions and work. I ain't agoin to support nary one of 'em, and 
when you heer any one say so you tell him "it's a lie," so- 
called. I golly, I ain't got nuthin to support myself on. We 
fought ourselves out of everything exceptin children and land, 
and I suppose the land is to be turned over to the niggers 
for graveyards. 

Well, my friend, I don't want much. I ain't ambitious, as 
I used to was. You all have got your shows and monkeys 

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and sirciisses and brass band and organs, and can play on 
the patrolyum and the harp of a thousand strings, and so on, 
but I've only got one favor to ax you. I want enough powder 
to kill a big yaller stumptail dog that prowls around my prem- 
ises at night. Pon my honor, I won't shoot at anything blue 
or black or mulatter. Will you send it? Are you and your 
folks so skeered of me and my folks that you won't let us have 
any ammunition? Are the squirrels and crows and black 
racoons to eat up our poor little corn-patches? Are the wild 
turkeys to gobble all round us with impunity? If a mad dog 
takes the hiderphoby, is the whole community to run itself to 
death to get out of the way? I golly ! it looks like your people 
had all took the rebelfoby for good, and was never gwine to 
get over it. See here, my friend, you must send me a little 
powder a^d a ticket to your show, and me and you will har- 
monize sertin. 

With these few remarks I think I feel better, and I hope 
I hain't made nobody fitin mad, for I'm not on that line at 
this time. 

I am truly your friend, all present or accounted for. 

P.S. — Old man Harris wanted to buy my fiddle the other 
day with Confederit money. He sed it would be good agin. 
He says that Jim Funderbuk told him that Warren's Jack 
seen a man who had jest come from Virginny, and he said a 
man had told his cousin Mandy that Lee had whipped 'em 
agin. Old Harris says that a feller by the name of Mack C. 
Million is coming over with a million men. But nevertheless, 
notwithstandin, somehow, or somehow else, I'm dubus about 
the money. If you was me, Artemus, would you make the 
fiddle trade? 

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From 'The Scrap Book.' 

Man was not made to live alone. I don't mean like Rob- 
inson Cruso, but alone in a house without a woman — a help- 
mate, a pard. It's an awful thing to come in and find the 
maternal chair vacant, even for a season. I know she has 
gone, but still imagine she is somewhere on the premises a 
circulatin' around and around. I am listenin' for the rustle 
of her dress or the creak of her nimble shoe — she wears num- 
ber 2's, with a high instep, and walks like a deer. Ever and 
anon methinks I hear her accustomed voice saying, "William, 
William — Mr. Arp, major, come here a moment." 

What wonderful resolution some women have got ! Mrs. 
Arp has at last departed. She has undertook a journey. For 
several weeks it has been the family talk. Some said she 
would get off and some said she wouldent. As for herself, 
she was serious and non-committal, but we daily observed that 
the big old trunk that contained the accumulated fragments of 
better days was being diligently ransacked. Scraps of lace, 
and lawn, and ribbon, and silk, and velvet, and muslin, and 
bumbazeen, and cassimere, were brought forth and aired, and 
the flat iron kept busy pressing and smoothing the wrinkles 
that age had furrowed in them. All sorts of patterns from 
Demorest, and Ehrich and Butterick, were overhauled and 
consulted with a kind of sad reality. A woman may be too 
poor to buy calico at five cents a yard, but she will have pat- 
terns. Little jackets, and pants, and shirts, little dresses, and 
drawers, and petticoats, and aprons had to be made up, and 
nobody but her knew what they would be made of. I tell 
you, one of these old-fashioned mothers is a miracle of grace. 
It ain't uncommon for folks nowadays to be their own tailors 
and dressmakers, but it takes sense and genius to get up a re- 
spectable outfit from scraps and old clothes outgrown or aban- 
doned for ratage and leakage. It was wonderful to see her 
rip 'em, and turn 'em, and cut 'em, and twist 'em — ^getting a 
piece here and a scrap there, cutting them down to the pattern 
— running them through the machine, and before anybody 
knew it she had the little chaps arrayed as fine as a band- 

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box, and never called on anybody for a nickel. That's what I 
call the quintessence of domestic economy. Nobody can beat 
her in that line. She knows how to put the best foot fore- 
most. Her children have got to look as decent as other 
people's, or she will keep 'em at home certain. She don't go 
about much, and seems to grow closer and closer to the chim- 
ney corner; but when she does move it's a family sensation. 
Every one helps — every one advises and encourages her in a 
subdued and respectful way. All want her to go off and rest 
and have a good time for her own sake, but tell her over and 
over how much they will miss her, and wear a little shadow 
of sorrow in the nigh side of the face. I think though she 
suspected all the time they would turn up Jack while she was 

Well, she did get off at last — on a three hours' journey 
and to stay a whole week. It was a tremendious undertaking, 
for she said the harness might break, or the buggy collapse, 
or the old mare run away on the road to town, and the cars 
might run off the track or break through a bridge, or not stop 
long enough for her to get off with the children, or let her 
off and take the children on, or some of us would get sick, or 
the house catch afire, or some tramp come along in the night 
and rob us and cut all our throats while we were asleep, and 
we wouldent know a thing about it till next morning. 

"Now, William," said she, "be mighty careful of every- 
thing, for you know how poor we are anyhow." "Poor as 
Lazarus," said I, "but he's a restin in Abraham's bosom." 
"Well, never mind Lazarus," said she, "the paragoric and 
quinine and turpentine are on the shelf in the cabinet. I have 
hid the laudanum, for it's dangerous, and you havent got more 
than half sense in the night time and might make a mistake. 
Don't let Ralph have the gun nor go to the mill pond. There 
are four geese a setting, and you must look after the goslins, 
and if you don't shoot that hawk spring chickens will be mighty 
scarce on this lot. And see here, William, I want you to 
take the beds off the bedsteads in my room and shut the doors 
and windows and make a fire of sulphur in some old paa 
They say it will just kill everything." "Must I stay inside or 
outside," said I, in a Cassabianca tone. "Maybe you had bet- 
ter try it awhile inside," said she, "just to see if you ever could 

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get used to it. Now, William, take good care of everything, 
for you may never see me again. Somehow I feel like some- 
thin's going to happen to me. Don't whip Ralph while Vm 
gone — the poor boy ain't well — ^he looks right pekid — and 
when you whipped Carl the other day the marks were all over 
his Httle legs." She always looks for marks — ^the little wil- 
lows are soft as broom straws, but she is bound to find a 
faint streak or two, and there's a tear for every mark. 

"William, the buttons are all right on your shirts. Feed 
the little chickens until I come back. I think the buntin hen 
is setting somewhere, and there's six eggs in my drawer that 
old Browny laid on my bed. If the children get sick you must 
telegraph me." "And if I get sick myself," said I, inquiringly 
— "Why there's the medicine in the cabinet," said she, "and 
you musent forget to water my pot-plants. I told Mr. Free- 
man to look after you and the boys, and Mrs. Freeman will 
keep an eye on the girls. Goodbye. Don't you cut the hams. 
I want them for company, and don't go in the locked pantry." 
I reckon she must have taken the key off with her, for we 
can't find it. "Goodbye — ^take care of Bows." She kissed 
us all around and choked up a little and dropped a few tears 
and said she was ready. I looked at the clock and told her 
we could barely make it — ^five miles in an hour and five min- 
utes, and the road muddy and the mule slow. She said she had 
never been left by the train in her life, and she didn't think 
she would be too late. I pressed the old mule through mud 
and slop, up hill and down hill. She was afraid of that mule, 
and when I larruped him she told me not to. Then he would 
put on the brakes, and she declared she would be left if I 
dident drive faster. We dident say much, but leaned for- 
ward and pressed forward in solemn energy as if the world 
hung upon the crisis. When we got within half a mile of town 
the whistle blowed away down the road and we had a slick 
hill to clime. I larruped heavily and clucked every step of 
the way, and we made the trip just in time to be left. The 
train moved off right before us. It didn't seem to care a 
darn. We gazed at it with feelings of sublime dispair. Mrs. 
Arp was looking dreamily away off into space when I ven- 
tured to remark, "Shall we go back?" She quietly pointed to 
the St. James and replied, "Hotel." 

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I saw her and little Jessie comfortably quartered in a nice 
room with a cheerful fire. Mr. Hoss, the landlord, was kind 
and sympathetic and promised she should not be left by the 
morning train, and so bidding them a sad goodbye I returned 
to my bairns. Take it all in all it was a big thing — a mighty 
big thing at my house. Fm poking around now hunting for 
consolation. She knows I'm desolate and is sorter glad of it. 
I know she is homesick already, but she won't own it. She 
would stay away a whole year before she would own it. She 
wants me to beg her to come back soon, and I won't, for she 
left her other little darling with me, and he will bring her. 
I've half a mind to drop her a postal card and say: "Carl is 
not well, but^ don't be alarmed about him," and then go to meet 
her on the first train that could bring her, for I know she 
would be there. It does look like a woman with ten children 
wouldent be so foolish about one of them, but there's no dis- 
count on a mother's anxiety. Her last command was, "Keep 
Cari with you all the time, and tuck the cover under him good 
at night, bless his little heart." I wonder what would become 
of children if they didn't have a parent to spur 'em up. In 
fact, it takes a couple of parents to keep things straight at my 
house. Yesterday the gray mule broke open the gate and let 
the cow and calf together. Carl left open another gate and the 
old sow got in the garden. Another boy has got a felon on 
his finger, and whines around and says his ma could cure it if 
she was here. He can't milk now, and so I thought I would 
try it, but old Bess wouldn't let nary drop down for me. I 
squeezed and pulled and tugged at her until she got mad and 
suddenly lifted her foot in my lap and set it down in the 
bucket, whereupon I forgot my equilibrium, and when I got 
up I gave old Bess a satisfactory kick in the side and departed 
those coasts in great humility. It's not my forte to milk a 
cow. The wind blew over more trees across my fences. The 
clock run down. Two lamp chimneys bursted. The fire 
popped out and burnt a hole in the carpet while we were at 
supper, and everything is going wrong just because Mrs. 
Arp's gone. 

It's mighty still, and solemn, and lonely around here now. 
Lonely ain't the word, nor howlin' wilderness. There ain't 

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any word to express the goneness and desolation that we feel 
There is her vacant chair in the comer — 

Yes, the rocker still is sitting 

Just where she waaf ever knitting — 

Knitting for the bairns she bore. 
And now the room seems sad and dreary. 
And my soul is getting weary, 

And my heart is sick and sore — and so forth. 

The dog goes whining round — ^the maltese cats are mew- 
ing, and the children look lost and droopy. But we'll get over 
it in a day or two, maybe, and then for a high old time. 


FktMn 'The Scrap Book.* 

There are folks and there are folks. There are fathers 
and mothers and children and grandchildren. There are folks 
whom you meet by day in the stores and offices and counting 
rooms and workshops, and there are folks whom you meet by 
night in their own homes by the domestic hearth, and there 
ain't much difference betwixt 'em. Only this, when you meet 
'em by day you don't know what they are by night. I dident 
know that anybody was very much like me and my folks, but 
I went to see an old friend in Rome the other night, and I 
hadent been in the family room ten minutes before there was 
an everlasting squall in the next room, and he jumped up and 
run out and thrashed around smartly and restored domestic 
tranquillity; and when he came back remarked that a child 
and a grandchild had had a little hostility, and about as soon 
as he sat down the fight opened afresh, and he went back 
again to subdue it, and shortly thereafter one of them came 
in and began to explore his pockets, and he held up his arms 
and talked to me as though nothing unusual was going on, and 
after the little chap had searched his coat pockets and his vest 
pockets, and his side pockets and his pantaloons pockets and 
found nothing but a piece of tobacco, he handed that over 
saying: "Grand-pa, I don't want your tobacco.*' "My 
friend," said I, "do you allow them to search you that way?*' 

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"Every night/* said he, "from the oldest to the youngest— 
sometimes I have candy, or an apple, or a knife, or some- 
thing, and they go through me like a conductor goes through 
a railroad car. My dear sir, I am the submissive gentleman 
you have read about. I submit to anything and everything 
for peace, but Lord help me, I don't get it. These children 
— these children, but you know all about children. There are 
two sets here, and I'm afraid there will be three sets before I 
die. These children nearly run me distracted. A lunatic 
asylum ain't no where. I used to think a man would run 
through and fight his battle and be discharged and get a pen- 
sion, but I'm worse off now than ever. I worry along through 
the day with my customers, and get tired and want rest and 
peace, and I come home and these chaps begin on me right 
straight, and its pa this, and grandpa that, and I've got to let 
'em get on me and waller all over me and search all my pock- 
ets, and then they go off to fighting like a passel of wild 
Camanchees, and it takes about two whippins apiece to get 'em 
oflF to bed, and then they get up in the morning before the fire 
is built and begin to cavort around and pull the cover all off 
me and I have to get up before I want to and I'll tell you 
what IS a fact, if there ain't a heaven, for a man in my fix, I 
shall always think there ought to be. How in the world do 
you get along with yours?" "Jesso, jesso," said I, "I under- 
stand you. I'm working for that same heaven and I hope to 
reach it by an' by — by and by." 

Not long after I met another old friend — ^a time-honored 
friend, a subdued looking friend — and I hailed him with a 
glad salutation, and says I, "How do you do, old roman— old 
patriark — how is the good wife, and how many children have 
you got?" He squeezed my hand affectionately and sadly, 
and says he, "William, I am glad to see you, for misery loves 
company. I have no children to spare and none for sale, but 
we have got nine, only nine, and the last two are a couple of 
twins only three months old, and we have to feed 'em on the 
bottle, and I'm about wore out, I am. Lord help me, I've 
been up most all night toting 'em around, and it's no new thing, 
I tell you, it's no new thing." When he left me to climb the 
comt-house hill he pulled his legs after him like there was a 
bag of shot in his shoes. I went across the street to see an- 

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other familiar face, and he was weighing out a dollar's worth 
of coffee for a countryman, and after he was through I 
slapped him on the back, and says I: "Hello, old fellow, how 
does the world use you?" "Tolable, tolable, only tolable," 
says he. "How is the good wife and the children, and how 
many of the little treasures have you got to brighten up the 
family hearth and make you happy ?" 

He shoved the coffee scoop away down in the sack and 
said: "She's well, she's very well, and we havent got but 
eight. They are all of a size pretty much, and you can't tell 
'em apart hardly. They are smart and good looking, but I tell 
you it keeps me a diggin to support 'em." And he shoved the 
scoop down a little deeper as lie looked at me and inquired: 
"How in the world did you manage to raise a dozen ?" " Splen- 
did," says I, "splendid. You will get used to it after a while 
— it's no trouble — no trouble at all when you get the hang of 
it." You see since I have got out of the woods I am beginning 
to holler and put on patriarchal airs. "You know, my dear 
fellow," said I, "that David says, blessed is he who hath his 
quiver full." "Yes, yes, I remember reading that," says he, 
"but I reckon that was one of David's jokes." 

The next friend I met didn't have any children, and had 
been married a long time, and he wanted to know if we 
couldn't spare him a lamb from our flock — a little girl to raise 
and leave his money to. Why, the biggest law-suit they ever 
had in Rome was about a little orphan girl that two good fam- 
ilies who didn't have any children wanted, and it mighty nigh 
killed the ones who didn't get her. Jesso. It's a power of 
care and trouble and responsibility to raise 'em, but nobody 
is happy without 'em. I meet a cotton buyer and he is work- 
ing just as hard as ever, and hasent got but one — a nice boy 
of ten years or thereabouts, and his father is digging away 
just as hard for him as if he had a dozen, and ever and anon 
when he thinks that the boy may lay down and die, it comes 
over him like a dark shadow, and he feels like he would want 
to die too and go with him. I know a good old mother who 
has children and grandchildren and great grandchildren all 
around her. But there is one of the original flock away off 
in the west, and as the good old mother sits by the evening 
fire, silent and thoughtful, with her teary eyes looking into 

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the blaze, I know she is yearning for one more look — one 
more embrace of the loved one before she dies. Well, it's a 
blessed thought to these mothers that there is a place — a 
heaven where all can be gathered together again, and live 
and love forever. 


From • From the Uncivil War to Date.' 

Write, my child — ^write something to The Constitution, 
I don't care what. I am too nervous. I can't think my own 
thoughts. It is perfectly horrible — awful, but I reckon it's 
all right. I reckon so. I wish there was not a tooth in my 
head. When they come, they come with pain and peril, and 
keep the poor child miserable, and when they go they go with 
a torture that no philosophy can endure. Oh, my poor jaw 
— ^just look how it is swollen. I am a sight. A pitiful pros- 
pect. I look like a bloated bond-holder on one side of my face 
and no bonds to comfort me. I wonder what would comfort 
a man in my fix. I have suffered more mortal agony from 
my teeth than from everything else put together. Samson 
couldn't pull them, hardly, for they are all riveted to the jaw- 
bone. I have been living in dread for a month, for I knew 
that eyetooth was fixing up trouble; and so yesterday morn- 
ing it sprung a leak at the breakfast table and I jumped out 
of my chair. The shell caved in, the nerve was touched, and 
in my agony I gave one groan and retired like I was a funeral. 
Five miles from town and no doctor. Don't put down what I 
suffered all that day, and the night following, for you can't. 
Mush poultices and camphor and paregoric and bromide and 
chloroform, and still the procession moved on, and the jumping, 
throbbing agony sent no flag of truce — no cessation of hos- 
tilities. What do I care for anything? Don't tell me about 
Hendricks being in Atlanta. I don't care where he is. Yes, 
I do. He is a good man, but I've got no time to think about 
him now. Please give me some more of that camphor. I've 
burned all the skin off my mouth now, but it is a counter- 
irritant and sorter scatters the pain around. If I had some 

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morphine I would take it, for I want rest. I am tired. Oh, 
for one short hour of rest. 

Write something, my daughter — write to The Constitu- 
tion and explain. Tell them I am "Billy in the low grounds." 
I am suffering and want sympathy. Write a note to the doc- 
tor, and tell him to come, come quick. I can't go through 
another night. Oh, my country. Let me try that hot iron 
again. Til cook this old fat jaw outside and inside. I wish 
I had no tongue, for I can't keep it from touching the plagued 
tooth. Just look at my gums, they have swelled up so you 
can hardly see the old tooth. Give me a knife and the hand 
glass, ril see if I can't let some blood out of these strutting 
gums. I am so nervous I can't hardly hold the knife, but 
here she goes. Oh, my country. Now give me the camphor 
and I'll let it burn in a new place. 

Just write a line to The Constitution; I don't care what — 
say I am sick. I wonder if the doctor will come. He will 
kill me, I know. It is awful to think of cold steel clamping 
this tooth and being jammed away up on these gums. I'll 
take chloroform, I reckon, for I can't stand it. I am afraid 
he will come. I want him and I don't want him. The last 
tooth I had pulled I went to the dentist's office like a hero, and 
I was glad he wasn't in — glad his door was locked — and for 
two more days I endured my agony, and then had to have it 
pulled at last. And he pulled me all to pieces, and the chloro- 
form left me before he got done, and I had an awful time. 
The memory of it is excruciating, and yet I have got to go 
through the same thing again. "Oh, the pity of it, lago, the 
pity of it." What has a man got teeth for, I would like to 
know. It is the brute that is in him, the dog, or the old 
Adam that evoluted from the monkeys. There is nothing 
God-like about teeth. They bite, that is all. They are called 
"canines." I saw a man bite another man's nose off, once — 
the teeth did it. The eye is God-like, angelic, beautiful, harm- 
less. The ear is a good thing, too, for it takes in the har- 
monies of nature and makes music sweet — ^music, that is the 
only thing common to angels and men. The nose is gentle 
and ornamental, but it is not of so much consequence except 
to blow off a bad cold and tell the difference between cologne 
and codfish. But the teeth — well, I think that false ones 

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are better than the genuine, for they never ache. I don't 
care for any, now. I am tired. These women can have 
eight or ten pulled at one time — ^just to get a new set. How in 
the world do they stand it? Pride, I reckon; womanly pride, 
womanly nature ; her love of the beautiful. But we can wear 
a moustache and hide a whole set of rotten snags. If women 
had beards, the dentists would perish. 

There she goes again, and then boom! Let me try some 
more paregoric and camphor. Maybe I can go to sleep after 
awhile if I will keep dosing. I wish I had just a small grain 
of dynamite behind that tooth, just at the end of the roots; 
I would explode it if it killed me. 

The doctor coming, you say ! Merciful heavens ! Well, let 
him come. In the language of Patrick Henry, "I repeat it, 
sir, let him come." "Lay on, McDuff"— cold steel forceps, 
wrenching, twisting, crushing, gouging. I don't believe I have 
got a friend in the world. I almost wish I was dead. Teeth 
are a humbug — a grand mistake — a blunder — ^an eye-tooth 
especially, that sends roots away up under the eye and makes 
an abscess there. They say a child is smart when it cuts the 
eye-tooth. I believe I had rather do without and be a fool. 
I have had rheumatism and all sorts of pains, but I will com- 
promise on anything but the toothache. I've a great respect 
for dentists, for they do the best they can to relieve mankind 
from his most miserable agony. 

"Good morning, doctor, I suppose I am the unfortunate 
individual you have come to doctor. I am ready for the rack. 
Get out your chloroform and your steel- jawed grabs; I am 
ready for the sacrifice. Is that a dagger that I see before me ?" 

Father is in his little bed. He is asleep now. The long 
agony is over. For nearly one hour we wrestled with him, 
for the chloroform gave out. He had taken so many things 
before the doctor came that chloroform failed to subdue him. 
It only made him delirious, and when we could not hold him 
we called in our blacksmith, and even then he pulled us all 
over the room, and the doctor had to take him on the wing. 
The old shell crushed and the roots had to be dug out in frag- 
ments. It was pitiful to hear him beg to go home. He has 

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morphine now, and will be all right in the morning. He told 
me to write you something, and I have written. 

Bill Arp, Per M. 

Just now he waked up and wanted to know who whipped 
that fight — the parrot or the monkey. — M. 


From *From the Uncivil War to Date' 

In the good old patriarchal times most every family of 
wealth kept what was called "open house" and all who came 
were welcome. There was no need to send word you were 
coming, for food and shelter were always ready. The gen- 
erous host met his guests at the gate and called for Dick or 
Jack or Caesar to come and take the horses in the barn — 
plenty of big fat hams and leaf lard in the smoke house — 
plenty of chickens and ducks and turkeys in the back yard — 
plenty of preserves in the pantry — plenty of trained servants 
to do the work while the lady of the house entertained her 
guests. How proud were these family servants to show off 
before their visitors and make display of their accomplish- 
ments in the kitchen and the dining-room and the chamber. 
They shared the family standing in the community and had 
but little sympathy for the "poor white trash" of the neigh- 

Some of us try to keep open house yet, but can't do it 
like we used to. The servants are not trained, and they come 
and go at their pleasure. Sometimes the larder gets very 
low and the purse looks like an elephant had trod on it. But 
still we do the best we can. We "welcome the coming and 
we speed the parting guest." 

During the last summer we had a great deal of company 
at our house and some of them stayed a good long time, for 
most of them were from a lower latitude and imagined that 
the yellow fever or some dread pestilence was about to invade 
their low country homes. And so they were easily persuaded 
to protract their visit. When they had all departed I was glad, 
for I knew that Mrs. Arp was tired — very tired. I was glad 

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too because the supplies were well nigh exhausted and the cook 
had given notice of a change of base. Our recess had just 
begun when I received the following appalling epistle : 

My Dear Cousin William : ' ' 

It is about time that we were paying you that long- 
promised visit. (The way he came to be our cousin was his 
stepfather's aunt married my wife's great uncle about 40 
years ago.) It is awful hot weather down here. The ther- 
mometer is away up to an 100. It makes us long for the rest 
and shade of some quiet, cool retreat in the mountains of 
North Georgia, where we can get on* the broad piazza of a 
country home and enjoy the fresh mountain air and the cool 
spring water. Our children are all at home now. Our eldest 
son has just returned from college, and our eldest daughter 
is now spending her vacation, and they need a good frolic in 
the country — and there are, as you know, just six others of 
all ages and sizes, and they continually talk of your springs 
and your branches and the fish pond that you write about so 
charmingly in your Sunday letters. So if you have room for 
us we will all be up in a few days. Our second boy has a 
favorite dog to whom he is much attached. If you have no 
objections we will bring the dog. He is well behaved and will 
give you no trouble. The third boy has a pair of fancy goats 
that are trained to work in harness, and I know your chil- 
dren will like to frolic with them. We will bring the goats. 
Our nurse will come with us. Now, don't give yourselves 
any anxiety on our account, for we are just coming to have 
a free and easy time and enjoy the air and the water. We 
will bring our fishing tackle along. 

Your Loving Cousin. 

It was with great hesitation that I read this letter to Mrs. 
Arp, but she was equal to the occasion, for her hospitality 
never surrenders. ''Well, write to them to come along," she 
said with a sigh. "I expect their children are tired of that 
hot city, and would be happy to get up here and play in the 
branch. Their poor mother has had a time of it just like I 
have — ^a thousand children and no negroes. Born rich and 
have to live hard, and will die poor I reckon. But write to 

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them to come along and enjoy the air and the water, for there 
is not much else here." 

"But my dear," said I, "there isent anything else, and I 
don't see how we can take them. The truth is I am plum out 
of money and I am ashamed to go to town and ask for any 
more credit. Two months ago when our company began to 
come we had three or four hundred chickens running around 
the lot, and before the company left I was buying twenty a 
day. Its just awful, and we can't get another cook any- 

"Well, it don't matter," said she, "we can't refuse them — 
it would be bad manners. Write to them to come along, and 
we will do the best we can. You can pick up something, I 
know; I never knew you to fail." 

So under conjugal pressure I indited the following reply: 

My Dear Cousin: Your letter delighted us beyond ex- 
pression. Our end of the line is all fixed up, and when you 
telegraph us that you are coming we will meet you at the 
depot. We have a double buggy and a farm wagon, and if 
they will not hold all and the baggage and livestock, the boys 
and the dogs and the goats can walk out and peruse the coun- 
try. It is only five miles, so come along and be happy and 
enjoy the air and the water. There is plenty of room now, 
for we shipped the last of eighteen visitors yesterday. They 
have run us down to air and water, but there is still an abund- 
ance of that and you are welcome to it. We don't care any- 
thing about your dog, but we have one here that I am afraid 
will eat his ears off in two minutes. Country dogs never did 
have much consideration for a town dog. The only trouble is 
about feeding your dog with palatable food, for we have no 
scraps left from our table now, and our dog has got to eating 
crawfish. This kind of food makes a dog hold on when he 

I think you had better bring the goats, for we would like 
to have a barbecue while you are here and we are just out of 
goats. You needn't bring your fishing tackle as we have 
plenty, but fish are awful scarce in our creek since the mill 
pond was drawn of¥. Couldent you bring some salt water fish 
as a rarity to our children? Huckleberries are ripe now and 


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your children will enjoy picking them. Ticks and red bugs 
are ripe, too, and your children will enjoy picking them about 
bed time. Scratching is a healthy business in the country and 
is the poor man's medicine. Town folks can take Cuticura and 
Sarsaparilla and S.S.S. and B.B.B. but a poor man just has 
to scratch — ^that's all. 

I wouldent mention it to my wife, but it has occurred to 
me that as you are about to break up for a season you might 
just as well bring your cow along, for ours are about played 
out. It would do your cow good to enjoy the air and water. 
And this reminds me that my wife scraped the bottom of the 
sugar barrel yesterday. It does take a power of sweetening 
for these country berries. A hundred pounds or so from your 
store wouldent come amiss. I suppose your nurse wouldent 
mind sleeping in the potatoe shed. It is a good cool place to 
roost at night. We have no musketoes but snakes are alarm- 
ingly frequent in these parts. Carl killed a rattlesnake in the 
garden yesterday but he had only six rattles and we think 
that we can soon learn your children to dodge them ; so come 
along and enjoy the air and water. It is well worth a visit 
up here to see the blue mountains and watch the young cyclones 
meander around. A cyclone came in sight of us last spring 
and unroofed nabor Munford's house and killed seven mules 
and three negro children and went on. It is a grand and in- 
spiring sight to see a cyclone on an excursion. Our crab 
apples are ripe now. I read the other day a very sad account 
about three children dying of crab apple colic in one family. 
Our cook has given us notice that she will leave next Sunday 
and my wife she has tried all over the naborhood to secure 
another but failed. Maybe you had better bring up a cook 
with you, but if you can't why then we will all try and get 
along on the air and the water. I can cook pretty well myself 
on an emergency, but don't fancy it as a regular job. But 
the greatest trouble now is that we have nothing to cook. 
But come along and enjoy the air and the water. 

Your cousin, William. 

Well, he dident come. The next time I saw him he said 
he was just joking, and I told him I was too. 

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From 'The Scrap Book.' 

There is a power of difference in human stock. The pure 
breed of Yankees never was a favorite stock with me. When 
it is judiciously crossed it does very well and I have known 
some mighty good grades to come from a mixture of Yank 
with the old Southern blooded stock. The old time South- 
erner is blooded stock. With him honor and fair dealing and 
family pride are bigger things than money. The Yankee 
runs on money. Their catechism says the chief end of man is 
to keep all you get and get all you can. They like what other 
people have got better than what they have got themselves 
and they go for it and call it speculation. If they can't get it 
that way fast enough they pass laws in Congress that will get 
it by degrees. Through tariffs and protection and bounties 
and railroad subsidies, they got nearly all we had before the 
war and they are still playing the same old game. They look 
upon us as a foeman worthy of their steal. When a Yank 
gets rich and don't want any more, and is sorter broken down 
in the loins, he gets sorter honest and gives some away to 
meeting houses and colleges. 

A Southerner don't care much for a dime, but a Yank 
will get rich off of coppers. He will buy nails at four dollars 
and ninety cents a keg and retail 'em out at five cents a pound. 
Ten cents and the keg is a fair profit for him. He will specu- 
late on an)rthing in the world. I knew one to buy his wife's 
dower in a piece of land for $200 and sell it to his daddy-in- 
law for a thousand. That was a cute way of making the stingy 
old cuss give him something before he died. A regular Yank 
is a perambulatin man. He don't mind going from Maine to 
Texas any more than we mind going to the post-office. He is 
smart and he is diligent and is never left by the train. When 
a clever Yank comes down South and mixes with our people 
he improves by contact, and if he stays long enough and mar- 
ries into a respectable family he is apt to make a good citizen. 
It helps him and it helps the family, especially if it is poor 
and proud. This kind of a cross generally does well and brings 
good fruit. The offspring are lively and shifty, and have the 

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love of money and the love of honor so beautifully blended 
you can't tell tother from which. A cross between Massachu- 
setts and South Carolina does very well now-a-days. One is 
chuck full of money and the other of honor. The money 
keeps the honor from perishing out, which is a good thing, 
for if it ain't kept comfortable it is inclined to degenerate, and 
the stock will run into scrub in two generations and have to 
be withdrawn from the turf. Honor nor nothing else ain't 
bomb-proof against the debasing influence of an empty stom- 
ach. If a race horse aint well fed his offspring will play out, 
and so when one of the first families gits poor, the children 
become a second family and so on and so forth until you can't 
tell 'em from the common stock. 

Then again we sometimes see the commonest kind of scrub 
human blessed with an uncommon quality of brains. Then 
you may look out and you might as well surrender, for they 
are going to have a slice of your property. A smart scrub 
is a dangerous animal. A cow that horns down the fence or a 
hog that roots open the gate or a horse that lets down the bars 
is a nuisance and a cuss. They are a scrub. The old fashioned 
first families wouldn't do a mean thing. They were above it. 
They wouldn't sacrifice their self-respect. I like them sort, 
especially if they are rich. They have big ideas and big ways 
and hold their heads up and look at you when they speak to 
you. They don't walk nor ride like common folks. I can 
tell 'em a hundred yards off. It takes all sorts of folks to 
make up a world, and I'm glad that kind are in it. I'm most 
as poor as Lazarus, but I ain't fool enough to hate rich folks. 
I like 'em, but if you think you can make anything off a rich 
scrub just try it. He don't waste enough to keep a hound 
dog from stan^ation. Poor folks are a right good thing in a 
country. In fact, a country is obliged to have 'em to keep rich 
folks in money. That's what I've been doing all my life and 
if I don*t grumble at it nobody needn't. Being poor and keep- 
ing so is my forte, but we have had a right good time, never- 
theless notwithstanding, for money brings a heap of trouble, 
and the children get awful tired waiting on a rich daddy to 
die. But I like money — ^money is a right good thing in a fam- 
ily, and I would like to feel the feeling of a rich man for a 
little while, may be it would stretch me up a little. Mrs. Arp 

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says I'm getting hump-shouldered. I would like to be a patri- 
arch in a church and give $500 a year to the preacher and 
shake hands with the brethren and sisters in the vestibule. I 
think I would like that. 

But after all it don't matter much whether a man is poor 
or rich, one man is as happy as another if his heart is in his 
bosom and not in his pocket. If it ain't in his bosom then he 
is a scrub. 


From 'The Scrap Book.' 

Hark, I hear a bluebird sing, 
And that's a sign of coming spring. 
The bull-frog bellers in the ditches. 
He's throw'd away his winter britches. 
Robin is bobbin around so merry, 
I reckon he's drunk on a China berry. 
The hawk for infant chickens watcheth, 
And 'fore you know it one he cotcheth. 
The lizard is sunning himself on a rail; 
The lamb is shaking his newborn tail. 
The darkey is plowing his stubborn mule, 
And gaily hollers, "gee, you fool." 
King Cotton has unfurled his banner, 
And scents the air with sweet guanner. 
The day grows long — ^the night's declining, 
The Indian summer's sun is shining. 
The smoking hills are now on fire, 
And every night it's climbing higher. 
The water warm, the weather fine. 
The time has come for hook and line ; 
Adown the creek, around the ponds. 
Are gentlemen and vagabonds. 
And all our little dirty sinners 
Are digging bait and catching minners. 
The dogwood buds are now a-swelling, 
The yaller jonquills sweet are smelling; 
And little busy bees are humming, 
And everything says spring is coming. 

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[1838— J 


FRANCIS HOPKINSON SMITH was born in Baltimore, the 
son of Francis Hopkinson Smith and Susan (Teackle) Smith, 
and spent his first years in St. Paul Street, probably in the neighbor- 
hood described for readers of 'The Fortunes of Oliver Horn' as 
Kennedy Square. He is a descendant of that Francis Hopkinson 
whom Thomas Jefferson called his friend and whose name appears, 
with Jefferson's, on the Declaration of Independence. Mr. Smith 
comes by his versatility quite as a matter of course, for this ancestor 
had many gifts, and did many things well ; he was lawyer, statesman, 
pamphleteer, ballad and music writer, and like the subject of this 
sketch seems to have found pleasure in being busy, 

Mr. Smith's personal appearance seems to contradict the state- 
ment that he has lived through six decades of the Nineteenth Century 
and one of the Twentieth, but the date of his birth can be set down 
with confidence as October 23, 1838. He is of medium height, active, 
with iron-gray hair, close cropped, and gray moustaches, looking, 
at the first glance, "like a prosperous French man of affairs. When 
he speaks, however, this illusion vanishes, for his voice has the pecu- 
liar ring and his gestures the illustrative significance which are 
acquired to the full by no one but the American lecturer." 

Sketches of Mr. Smith tell much of his charm, but say little of 
the details of his life. The charm is easily inferred from his pic- 
tures and books, and something of the actual life of the man can be 
inferred from his novels and short stories, if they are indeed as 
autobiographical as they are supposed to be. The sketches hint 
that his father was an amiable visionary, overtaken by reverses in 
the 'fifties, the decade in which fell the formative years of the 
author's life. These reverses kept his son from Princeton, for which 
he had been prepared, and sent him into the world to shift for him- 
self at an age when his education could not have been liberal. The 
world, of course, is the best college, in some respects, and finds a 
way to enforce its demands; but its curriculum does not often lead 
to a career like that achieved by Mr. Smith, for which a broad pro- 
ficiency in the liberal arts is a useful preparation. It is one of the 
highest tributes to the ideals he has cherished through life, and to 

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the energy and integrity with which he has worshiped them, that 
he has always made his devoirs in intellectual clothes that have ad- 
mitted him without question to any function of intellectual society 
at which he has cared to assist. How he has done this as faultlessly 
as any doctor of philosophy must make an intensely interesting story. 

Fortune turned Mr. Smith's face toward New York instead of 
toward Princeton, and it is said he arrived in the great city with 
only thirty-eight cents on which to begin life. The capital proved 
adequate, for in addition he had riches of temperament and courage 
and health which made his youthful assurance as sure as human 
fortune can be. 

The difficulties surrounding the homeless young man in New 
York in the years immediately before the war were more serious 
than we are now likely to regard them. If the autobiographical 
'Fortunes of Oliver Horn' can be taken as realizing the entourage 
and atmosphere of young Smith in his Southern home, the mere 
thought of his going to the metropolis excited the disgust and fore- 
boding of those who, at that time of growing irritation, regarded 
the North as a land accursed to a Southerner by hordes of "damned 

Life did not at once open with brilliant morning hues. The boy 
from the South began it by walking the streets in a search for em- 
ployment, a quest which was unrewarded for weeks. It is intimated 
that at sixteen he was helping in a store, and that for two years he 
carried a dinner pail as a day laborer. He was thus going to a 
school in which he was to acquire a working knowledge of the work- 
a-day world, and a sympathy with those who toiled in it, all to be 
used with fine effect in the novels he was to write. 

These rapid touches intimate the beginnings of Francis Hopkin- 
son Smith, engineer, author, painter, traveler, lecturer, after-dinner 
speaker, not to attempt an inclusive list of the roles in which he has 
appeared so competently as to win the applause of a vast audience. 
If Mr. Smith were asked in which of them he has done the best 
work he would, it is thought, answer in that of the mechanical en- 
gineer. His admirers will hardly agree with him. Perhaps they 
will not agree among themselves, except in admiring the man and 
respecting his many gifts, but break up into groups— one claiming 
that he is at his best on the platform, where he displays unusual 
histrionic power, another, under the charm of his sketches of out- 
door life, seeing in him a great water-colorist ; another, whose ears 
love the hum of industry and whose spirit thrills with the inspira- 
tion of the world of work, hailing him as a builder of great defences 
of national and international commerce, and still another delighting 
to honor the creative energy which has breathed the breath of life 

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into such charming creatures as Colonel Carter of Cartersville and 
Peter — ^to name only two of a score or more who appear in our' 
memories in an intensely human pageant at the mere mention of 
the name of their genial creator. It is safe to say this last group 
is the largest. 

It was probably during his service as a clerk in the plant of an 
iron manufacturer — ^no doubt Morton, Slade and Company, of ' Oliver 
Horn' — that Smith began to prepare for his career as mechanical 
engineer. That he had "a due preliminary training" cannot be 
doubted, in view of his success. He has built bridges, breakwaters, 
and lighthouses, consciously for money and unconsciously for ex- 
periences needed in the making of books. Among his achievements 
are the government seawall around Governor's Island, and that at 
Tompkinsville, Staten Island, the Race Rock lighthouse, off New 
London, Connecticut, and the foundation for the Bartholdi Statue 
of Liberty. 

Mr. Smith's work-a-day life has never obscured the promptings 
which he felt when a boy in Baltimore toward artistic expression 
in color. This impulse had made him a devoted pupil of the artist 
Alfred Jacob Miller (Oliver Horn's Old Crocker). Miller took a 
deep interest in his pupil, and gave him the only lessons in drawing 
and painting he ever had. Miller had taken his own first lessons 
from Thomas Sully, the painter of Jefferson and other distinguished 
Americans. He was an old man when Smith came under his in- 
fluence, and had done his best work, a series of sketches of scenes 
and incidents of a journey to the Rocky Mountains with Sir William 
Drummond Stewart, which became the nucleus of a gallery of In- 
dian paintings at Murthley Castle. In New York the youth from 
the South visited the art exhibitions, drew in charcoal, and painted 
in water colors as he had opportunity. He made many acquaint- 
ances among ambitious young artists who afterward with him, be- 
came members of the famous Tile Club. One of his first books de- 
scribes the summer excursions of the club in a boat which was towed 
through the canals of New York State. Each of the blue delft tiles 
which border the fireplace in the studio of his New York home was 
painted by a member of the club — Quartley, Sarony, Chase, Rein- 
hart, Abbey, Stanford White, and the rest. He has received 
medals from the Pan-American Exposition at Buffalo, the Charles- 
ton Exposition, the Philadelphia Art Club, and other organizations. 
The Sultan of Turkey has conferred upon him, with the grade of 
Officer, the orders of Medjidieh and Osmanyeh. He is a member 
of the American Watercolor Society and the art clubs of Philadel- 
phia and Cincinnati. As an artist he is known by his "A January 
Thaw," "On the Lagoons," "An Idle Morning, Beices," "The Pigeon 

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Mosque,** "The Golden Horn/' "The Riva," "Under the Towers,** 
"A Passing Shower, Venice,** "A Spring Shower, StockhoUn,** 
"Holland Skies,** and "A Venetian Cab Stand.** The subjects of 
these sketches tell the story of his cosmopolitan character. Some- 
one who knows him has described Mr. Smith as at home every- 
where on earth. "His orbit touches Omaha and G>nstantinople. In 
winter he shines from the lecture-platform upon the Hyperboreans 
of Chicago and Council Bluffs; in summer he sketches in Peter 
Jansen's rowboat upon the lazy Maas, or moors his gondola to the 
stones of Venice; or, accompanied by his German dragoman and a 
Turkish policeman in plain clothes, he goes voyaging in a painted 
caique 'adown the billowy Bosphorus.' ** 

Like Richard Malcolm Johnston, Francis Hopkinson Smith began 
his career as author when his powers were fully matured and he had 
large experience of life. He waS forty-seven when his first book — 
'Old Lines in New Black and White' — ^was issued by Houghton, 
Mifflin and Company. 'Colonel Carter of Cartersville' gave him an 
assured place as a novelist, while 'Caleb West' and every succeeding 
volume have strengthened the popular attachment to him. He is a 
diligent writer of short stories, and it is probable that in these he 
has done his most vital work. Every quarter of the earth has been 
put under contribution for his fiction, and it is said (probably not 
quite truly) that all of the chief incidents in his stories, whether of 
achievement, as 'Caleb West,' 'Tom Grogan' and 'The Tides of 
Bamegat/ of sentiment, as 'Colonel Carter,' or of art and travel, 
as 'A White Umbrella in Mexico,' 'Gondola Days,' and 'Wellwom 
Roads,' are drawn from the author's experiences or are the retold 
incidents of life in the circle in which his father lived and his own 
early years were spent His levies have been those of the artist 
who diminishes or exaggerates his spoil as he pleases, or the effect 
aimed at demands. In the case of Colonel Carter it was exaggera- 
tion, and that amiable character is not, in strictness, a gentleman of 
the old school in the South. In the South, as elsewhere, it is not 
the gentleman who is a type of the best life who borrows money and 
habitually forgets to repay it. But these faults are negligible. The 
important thing is that the vitality, sanity and optimism which have 
fixed the facts of Mr. Smith's career, have entered into the most 
of his fictive creations and made them wholesome. 

In the quarter of a century in which he has been writing he has 
dbne a great deal alone in the making of books. Some of the titles are : 

Old Lines in New Black and White. 1885. 

Well-Worn Roads. 1886. 

A White Umbrella in Mexico. 1889. 

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A Book of the Tile Club. 1890. 

Colonel Carter of Cartersville. 1891. 

A Day at Laguerre's. 1892. 

American Illustrators. iSg2, 

A Gentleman Vagabond, and Some Others. 1895. 

Tom Grogan. 1896. 

Gondola Days. 1897. 

Venice of To-Day. 1897. 

Caleb West. 1898. 

The Other Fellow. 1899. 

The Fortunes of Oliver Horn. 1902. 

The Under Dog. 1903. 

Colonel Carter's Christmas. 1904. 

At Qose Range. 1905. 

The Wood Fire in No. 3. 1905. 

The Tides of Bamegat. 190(5. 

The Veiled Lady. 1907. 

The Romance of an Old-fashioned Gentleman. 1907. 

Peter. 1908. 

Mr, Smith is said to regard mechanical engineering as the busi- 
ness of his life and painting and novel-writing as the employments 
of his play-time. This bibliogrraphy shows that he plays to good 

cmiut. ^' /S-^o^>t, 

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From 'Peter.' Copyright* Charles Scribner*8 Sons, and used here by permission of the 


It was wonderful how young he looked, and how happy 
he was, and how spry his step, as the .two turned into William 
Street and so on to the cheap little French restaurant with its 
sanded floor, little tables for two and four, with their tiny 
pots of mustard and flagons of oil and red vinegar — ^this last, 
the *ieft-overs" of countless bottles of Bordeaux — ^to say 
nothing of the great piles of French bread weighing down a 
shelf beside the proprietor's desk, racked up like cordwood, 
and all of the same color, length and thickness. 

Every foot of the way through the room toward his own 
table — ^his for years, and which was placed in the far corner 
overlooking the doleful little garden with its half-starved vine 
and hanging baskets — Peter had been obliged to speak to 
everybody he passed (some of the younger men rose to their 
feet to shake his hand) — ^until he reached the proprietor and 
gave his order. 

Auguste, plump and oily, his napkin over his arm, drew out 
his chair (it was always tipped back in reserve until he ar- 
rived), laid another plate and accessories for his guest, and 
then bent his head until Peter indicated the particular brand 
of Bordeaux — the color of the wax sealing its top was the only 
label — ^with which he proposed to entertain his friend. 

All this time Jack had been on the point of bursting. Once 
he had slipped his hand into his pocket for Breen's letter, in 
the belief that the best way to get the most enjoyment out of 
the incident of his visit and the result — for it was still a 
joke to Jack — would be to lay the half sheet on Peter's plate 
and watch the old fellow's face as he read it. Then he de- 
cided to lead gradually up to it, concealing the best part of 
the story — the prospectus and how it was to be braced — ^until 
the last. 

But the boy could not wait; so after he had told Peter 
about Ruth — ^and that took ten minutes, try as hard as he 
could to shorten the telling — during which the stuflFed pep- 
pers were in evidence — and after Peter had replied with 

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certain messages to Ruth— during which the spaghetti was 
served sizzling hot, with entrancing f razzHngs of brown cheese 
clinging to the edges of the tin plate — ^the Chief Assistant 
squared his elbows and plunged head-foremost into the subject. 

•*And now, I have got a surprise for you, Uncle Peter," 
cried Jack, smothering his eagerness as best he could. 

The old fellow held up his hand, reached for the shabby, 
dust- begrimed bottle, that had been sound asleep under the 
sidewalk for years; filled Jack's glass, then his own; settled 
himself in his chair and said with a dry smile: 

"If it's something startling, Jack, wait until we drink 
this," and he lifted the slender rim to his lips. "If it's some- 
thing delightful, you can spring it now." 

"It is both," answered Jack. "Listen and doubt your ears. 
I had a letter from Uncle Arthur this morning asking me to 
come and see him about my Cumberland ore property, and I 
have just spent an hour with him." 

Peter put down his glass : 

"You had a letter from Arthur Breen — about — ^what do 
you mean. Jack?" 

"Just what I say." 

Peter moved to the table, and looked at the boy in wonder- 

"Well, what did he want?" He was all attention now. 
Arthur Breen sending for Jack ! — and after all that had hap- 
pened ! Well — ^well ! 

"Wants me to put the Cumberland ore property father 
left me into one of his companies." 

"That fox!" answered Jack, in a confirmatory tone; and 
then followed an account of the interview, the boy chuckling 
at the end of every sentence in his delight over the situation. 

"And what are you going to do?" asked Peter in an un- 
decided tone. He had heard nothing so comical as this for 

"Going to do nothing — that is nothing with Uncle Ar- 
thur. In the first place, the property is worthless, unless half 
a million of money is spent upon it." 

"Or is said to have been spent upon it," rejoined Peter with 
a smile, remembering the Breen methods. 

"Exactly so; and in the second place, I would rather tear up 

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the deed than have it added to Uncle Arthur's stcxk of bal- 

Peter dnimmed on the table-cloth and looked out of the 
window. The boy was right in principle, but then the prop- 
erty might not be a balloon at all; might in fact be worth a 
great deal more than the boy dreamed of. That Arthur Breen 
had gone out of his way to send for Jack — knowing, as Peter 
did, how systematically both he and his wife had abused and 
ridiculed him whenever his name was mentioned — was posi- 
tive evidence to Peter's mind not only that the property had a 
value of some kind but that the discovery was of recent origin. 

"Would you know yourself, Jack, what the property was 
worth — that is, do you feel yourself competent to pass upon 
its value?" asked Peter, lifting his glass to his lips. He was 
getting back to his normal condition now. 

"Yes, to a certain extent, and if I fail, Mr. MacFarlane 
will help me out. He was superintendent of the Rockford 
Mines for five years. He received his early training there — 
but there is no use talking about it. Uncle Peter. I only told 
you to let you see how the same old thing is going on day after 
day at Uncle Arthur's. If it isn't Mukton, it's Ginsing, or 
Black Royal, or some other gas bag." 

"What did you tell him?" 

"Nothing — ^not in all the hour I talked with him. He did 
the talking; I did the listening." 

"I hope you were courteous to him, my boy?" 

"I was — ^particularly so." 

"He wants your property, does he?" ruminated Peter, 
rolling a crumb of bread between his thumb and forefinger. 
"I wonder what's up? He has made some bad breaks lately 
and there were ugly rumors about the house for a time. He 
has withdrawn his account from the Exeter and so I've lost 
sight of all his transactions." Here a new idea seemed to 
strike him : "Did he seem very anxious about getting hold of 
the land?" 

A queer smile played about Jack's lips : 

"He seemed not to be, but he was." 

"You're sure?" 

"Very sure; and so would you be if you knew him as well 
as I do. I have heard him talk that way to dozens of men and 

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then brag how he'd 'covered his tracks/ as he used to call it." 

"Then, Jack," exclaimed Peter in a decided tone, "there is 
something in it What it is you will find out before many 
weeks, but something. I will wager you he has not only had 
your title searched but has had test holes driven all over your 
land. These fellows stop at nothing. Let him alone for a 
while and keep him guessing. When he writes to you again 
to come and see him, answer that you are too busy, and if he 
adds a word about the ore beds tell him you have withdrawn 
them from the market. In the meantime I will have a talk with 
one of our directors who has an interest, so he told me, in a 
new steel company up in the Cumberland Mountains, some- 
where near your property, I believe. He may know something 
of what's going on, if anything is going on." 

Jack's eyes blazed. Something going on! Suppose that 
after all he and Ruth would not have to wait. Peter read his 
thoughts and laid his hand on Jack's wrist: 

"Keep your toes on the earth, my boy; no balloon ascen- 
sions and no bubbles — none of your own blowing. They are 
bad things to have burst in your hands — four hands now, re- 
member, with Ruth's. If there's any money in your Cum- 
berland ore bank, it will come to light without your help. 
Keep still and say nothing, and don't you sign your name to a 
piece of paper as big as a postage stamp until you let m.e see it. " 

Here Peter looked at his watch and rose from the table. 

"Time's up, my boy. I never allow myself an hour at 
luncheon, and I am due at the bank in ten minutes. Thank 
you, Auguste — and Auguste! please tell Botti the spaghetti 
was delicious. Come, Jack." 

It was when he held Ruth in his arms that same afternoon 
— ^behind the door, really — ^she couldn't wait until they reached 
the room — ^that Jack whispered in her astonished and delighted 
ears the good news of the expected check from Garry's 

"And daddy won't lose anything; and he can take the new 
work!" she cried joyously. "And we can all go up to the 
mountains together! Oh, Jack! — let me run and tell daddy!" 

"No, my darling — not a word. Garry had no business 
to tell me what he did; and it might leak out and get him into 

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trouble; no, don't say a word. It is only a few days off. 
We shall all know next week." 

He had led her to the sofa, their favorite seat. 

"And now I am going to tell you something that would be 
a million times better than Garry's check if it were only true — 
but it isn't." 

"Tell me, Jack— quick !" Her lips were close to his. 

"Uncle Arthur wants to buy my ore lands." 

"Buy your — And we are going to be — ^married right away! 
Oh, you darling Jack!" 

"Wait, wait, my precious, until I tell you!" She did not 
wait, and he did not want her to. Only when he could loosen 
her arms from his neck did he find her ear again, and then he 
poured into it the rest of the story. 

"But, oh, Jack! — wouldn't it be lovely if it were true — 
and just think of all the things we could do." 

"Yes— but it isn't true." 

"But just suppose it was. Jack! You would have a horse 
of your own and we'd build the dearest little home and " 

"But it never can be true, blessed — not out of the Cum- 
berland property — " protested Jack. 

"But, Jack! Can't we suppose f Why, supposing is the 
best fun in the world. I used to suppose all sorts of things 
when I was a little girl. Some of them came true, and some 
of them didn't, but I had just as much fun as if they had all 
come true." 

"Did you ever suppose me?'^ asked Jack. He knew she 
never had — he wasn't worth it; but what difference did it 
make what they talked about! 

"Yes — ^ thousand times. I always knew, my blessed, 
that there was somebody like you in the world somewhere — 
and when the girls would break out and say ugly things about 
men — all men — I just knew they were not true of every- 
body. I knew that you would come — and that I should always 
look for you until I found you ! And now tell me ! Did you 
suppose about me, too, you darling Jack?" 

"No— never. There could not be any supposing; there 
isn't any now. It's just you I love, Ruth — ^you — ^and I love 
the 'you' in you — ^That's the best part of you." 

And so they talked on, she close in his arms, their cheeks 


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together; building castles of rose marble and ivory, laying out 
gardens with vistas ending in summer sunsets; dreaming 
dreams that only lovers dream. 


From ' Gondola Days.' Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin and Company, and used here by 
permission of the publishers. 

Night in Venice! A night of silver moons— one hung 
against the velvet blue of the infinite, fathomless sky, the 
other at rest in the still sea below. 

A night of ghostly gondolas, chasing specks of stars in 
dim canals; of soft melodies broken by softer laughter; of 
tinkling mandolins, white shoulders, and tell-tale cigarettes. A 
night of gay lanterns lighting big barges, filled with singers 
and beset by shadowy boats, circling like moths or massed 
like water-beetles. A night when San Giorgio stands on tip- 
toe, Narcissus-like, to drink in his own beauty mirrored in the 
silent sea ; when the angel crowning the Campanile sleeps with 
folded wings, lost in the countless stars ; when the line of the 
city from across the wide lagoons is but a string of lights 
buoying golden chains that sink into the depths ; when the air 
is a breath of heaven, and every sound that vibrates across the 
never-ending wave is the music of another world. 

No pen can give this beauty, no brush its color, no tongue 
its delight. It must be seen and felt. It matters little how 
dull your soul may be, how sluggish your imagination, how 
dead your enthusiasm, here Nature will touch you with a wand 
that will stir every blunted sensibility into life. Palaces and 
churches — ^poems in stone — canvases that radiate sombre 
forests, oases of olive and palm, Beethoven, Milton, and even 
the great Michael himself, may have roused in you no quiver 
of delight nor thrill of feeling. 

But here — ^here by this wondrous city of the sea — ^here, 
where the transcendent goddess of the night spreads her 
wings, radiant in the light of an August moon, her brow stud- 
ded with stars, even were your soul of clay, here would it 
vibrate to the dignity, the beauty, and the majesty of her 
matchless presence. 

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As you lie, adrift in your gondola, hung in mid air — so 
like a mirror is the sea, so vast the vault above you — ^so 
dreamlike the charm! How exquisite the languor! Now a 
burst of music from the far off plaza, dying into echoes about 
the walls of San Giorgio; now the slow tolling of some bells 
from a distant tower; now the ripple of a laugh, or a snatch 
of song, or the low cooing of a lover's voice, as a ghostly 
skiff with drawn curtains and muffled light glides past; and 
now the low splash of the rowers as some phantom ship looms 
above you with bowlights aglow, crosses the highway of silver, 
and melts into shadow. 

Suddenly from out the stillness there bursts across the 
bosom of the sleeping wave the dull boom of the evening gun, 
followed by the long blast of the bugle from the big warship 
near the arsenal ; and then, as you hold your breath, the clear 
tones of the great bell of the Campanile strike the hour. 

Now is the spell complete ! 

The Professor, in the seat beside me, turns his head, and, 
with a cautioning hand to Espero to stay his oar, listens till 
each echo has had its say; first San Giorgio's wall, then the 
Public Garden, and last the low murmur that pulsates back 
from the outlying islands of the lagoon. On nights like these 
the Professor rarely talks. He lies back on the yielding cush- 
ions, his eyes upturned to the stars, the glow of his cigarette 
lighting his face. Now and then he straightens himself, looks 
about him, and sinks back again on the cushions, muttering 
over and over again, "Never such a night — never, never!" 
To-morrow night he will tell you the same thing, and every 
other night while the moon lasts. Yet he is no empty enthu- 
siast. He is only enthralled by his mistress, this matchless 
Goddess of Air and Light and Melody. Analyse the feel- 
ing as you may, despise its sentiment or decry it altogether, 
the fact remains, that once get this drug of Venice into your 
veins, and you never recover. The same thrill steals over you 
with every phase of her wondrous charm — in the early morn- 
ing, in the blinding glare of the noon, in the cool of the fading 
day, in the tranquil watches of the night. It is Venice the 
Beloved, and there is none other. 

Espero has breathed her air always, and hundreds of 
nights have come and gone for him; yet as he stands bare- 

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headed behind you, his oar slowly moving, you can hear him 
communing with himself as he whispers "Bella notte, bella 
notte," just as some other devotee would tell his beads in un- 
conscious prayer. It is the spirit of idolatry born of her 
never-ending beauty, that marks the marvellous power which 
Venice wields over human hearts, compelling them, no matter 
how dull and leaden, to reverence and to love. 

And the Venetians never forget ! While we float idly back 
to the city, the quays are crowded with people, gazing across 
the wide lagoons, drinking in their beauty, the silver moon 
over all. Now and then a figure will come down to the 
water's edge and sit upon some marble steps, gazing seaward. 
There is nothing to be seen — no passing ship, no returning 
boat. It is only the night ! 

Away up the canal, Guglielmo, the famous singer, once a 
gondolier, is filling the night with music, a throng of boats 
almost bridging the canal, following him from place to place, 
Luigi, the primo, in the lead — the occupants hanging on every 
note that falls from his lips. 

Up the Zattere, near San Rosario, where the afternoon sun 
blazed but a few hours since, the people line the edge of the 
marble quay, their children about them, the soft radiance of 
the night glorifying the Giudecca. They are of all classes, 
high and low. They love their city, and every phase of her 
beauty is to them only a variation of her marvellous charm. 
The Grand Duchess of the Riva stands in the doorway of 
her caffe, or leans from her chamber window; Vittorio and 
little Appo, and every other member of the Open-Air Club, 
are sprawled over the Ponte Veneta Marina, and even the 
fishermen up the Pallada sit in front of their doors. Venice 
is decked out to-night in all the glory of an August moon. 
They must be there to see! 

You motion to Espero, and with a twist of his blade he 
whirls the gondola back to the line of the farthest lights. As 
you approach nearer, the big Trieste steamer looms above you, 
her decks crowded with travellers. Through her open port- 
holes you catch the blaze of the electric lights, and note the 
tables spread and the open staterooms, the waiters and stew- 
ards moving within. About her landing ladders is a swarm of 

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gondolas bringing passengers, the porters taking up the trunks 
as each boat discharges in turn. 

A moment more and you shoot alongside the Molo and the 
watersteps of the Piazzetta. An old man steadies your boat 
while you alight. You bid Espero good-night and mingle 
with the throng. What a transition from the stillness of the 
lagoon ! 

The open space is crowded with idlers walking in pairs 
or groups. The flambeaux of gas-jets are ablaze. From be- 
hind the towering Campanile in the great Piazza comes a burst 
of music from the King's Band. Everywhere are color and 
light and music. Everywhere stroll the happy, restful con- 
tented people, intoxicated with the soft air, the melody, and 
the beauty of the night. 

If you think you know San Marco, come stand beneath 
its portals and look up. The deep coves, which in the daylight 
are lost in the shadows of the dominant sun, are now illu- 
mined by the glare of a hundred gas-jets from the street 
below. What you saw in the daylight is lost in the shadow — 
the shadowed coves now brilliant in the light. To your sur- 
prise, as you look, you find them filled with inscriptions and 
studded with jewels of mosaic, which flash and glint in the 
glare of the blazing flambeaux. All the pictures over the 
great doors now stand out in bold coloring, with each caramel 
of mosaic distinct and clear. Over every top-moulding you 
note little beads and dots of gray and black. If you look 
closer two beads will become one, and soon another will burst 
into wings. They are the countless pigeons roosting on the 
carving. They are out of your reach, some fifty feet above 
you, undisturbed by all this glitter and sound. 

As you turn and face the great square of the Piazza, you 
find it crowded to the very arcades under the surrounding 
palaces, with a moving mass of people, the tables of the caffes 
reaching almost to the band-stand placed in the middle. Flo- 
rian's is full, hardly a seat to be had. Auguste and his men 
are bringing ices and cooling drinks. The old Duchess of un- 
certain age, with the pink veil, is in her accustomed seat, and 
so are the white-gloved officers with waxed mustaches, and 
the pretty Venetian girls with their mothers and duennas. 
The Professor drops into his seat against the pillar — lights 

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another cigarette, and makes a sign to Auguste. It is the 
same old order, a cup of coffee and the smallest drop of Cog- 
nac that can be brought in a tear-bottle of a decanter the size 
of your thumb. 

When the music is over you stroll along the arcades and 
under the Bocca del Leone, and through the narrow streets 
leading to the Campo of San Moise, and so over the bridge 
near the Bauer-Grunwald to the crack in the wall that leads 
you to the rear of your own quarter. Then you cross your 
garden and mount the steps to your rooms, and so out upon 
your balcony. 

The canal is deserted. The music-boats have long since 
put out their lanterns and tied up for the night. The lighters 
at the Dogana opposite lie still and motionless, their crews 
asleep under the mats and stretched on the decks. Away up 
in the blue swims the silver moon, attended by an escort of 
clouds hovering close about her. Towering above you rises 
the great dome of the Salute, silent, majestic, every statue, 
cross, and scroll bathed in the glory of her light. 

Suddenly as you hang over your balcony, the soft night 
embracing you, the odor of oleanders filling the air, you hear 
the quick movement of a flute borne on the night wing from 
away up the Iron Bridge. Nearer it comes, nearer, and clear, 
bird-like notes floating over the still canal and the deserted 
city. You lean forward and catch the spring and rhythm of 
the two gondoliers as they glide past, keeping time to the thrill 
of the melody. You catch, too, the abandon and charm of it 
all. He is standing over her, his head uncovered, the moon- 
light glinting on the uplifted reed at his lips. She lies on the 
cushions beneath him, throat and shoulders bare, a light scarf 
about her head. It is only a glimpse, but it lingers in your 
memory for years — ^you on the balcony and alone. 

Out they go— out into the wide lagoon— out into the soft 
night, under the glory of the radiant stars. Fainter and fainter 
falls the music, dimmer and dimmer pales the speck with 
its wake of silver. 

Then all is still. 

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From 'CoIoneS Carter of CartersvUle.' Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin and Company* 
and used here by permission of the publishers. 

It was some time before I could quiet the old man's anxi- 
eties and coax him back into his usual good humor, and then 
only when I began to ask him of the old plantation days. 

Then he fell to talking about the colonel's father, Gen- 
eral John Carter, and the high days at Carter Hall when Miss 
Nancy was a young lady and the colonel a boy home from 
the university. 

"Dem was high times. We ain't neber seed no time like 
dat since de war. Git up in de mawnin' an' look out ober 
de lawn, an' yer come fo'teen or fifteen couples ob de fustest 
quality folks, all on horseback ridin' in de gate. Den such a 
scufflin' round ! Old marsa an' missis out on de po'ch, an' de 
little pickaninnies runnin' from de quarters, an' all hands 
helpin' 'em off de horses, an' dey all smokin' hot wid de gal- 
lop up de lane. 

"An' den sich a breakfast an' sich dancin' an' co'tin'; ladies 
all out on de lawn in der white dresses, an' de gemmen in fair- 
top boots, an' Mammy Jane runnin' round same as a chicken 
wid its head off — an' der heads was off bef o' dey knowed it, an' 
dey a-br'ilin' on de gridiron. 

"Dat would go on a week or mo', an' den up dey '11 all git 
an' away dey'd go to de nex' plantation, an' take Miss Nancy 
along wid 'em on her little sorrel mare, an' I on Marsa John's 
black horse, to take care bofe of 'em. Dem zvas times ! 

"My old marsa" — ^and his eyes glistened — "my old Marsa 
John was a gemman, sah, like dey don't see nowadays. Tall, 
sah, an' straight as a cornstalk ; hair white an' silky as de tassel ; 
an' a voice like de birds was singin', it was dat sweet. 

" 'Chad,' he use' ter say — ^you know I was young den, 
an' I was his body servant — 'Chad, come yer till I bre'k yo' 
head;' an' den when I come he'd laugh fit to kill hisself. Dat's 
when you do right. But when you was a low-down nigger an' 
got de debbil in yer, an' ole marsa hear it an' send de ober- 
seer to de quarters for you to come to de little room in de big 

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house whar de walls was all books an' whar his desk was, 
't wa'nt no birds about his voice den — ^mo* like de thunder." 

"Did he whip his negroes?" 

"No, sah; don't reckelmember a single lick laid on airy 
nigger dat de marsa knowed of ; but when dey got so bad — an' 
some niggers is dat way— den dey was sold to de swamp lan's. 
He wouldn't hab 'em round 'ruptin' his niggers, he use' ter say. 

"Hab coffee, sah? Won't take I a minute to bile it. Col- 
onel ain't been drinkin' none lately, an' so I don't make none." 

I nodded my head, and Chad closed the door softly, taking 
with him a small cup and saucer, and returning in a few min- 
utes followed by that most delicious of all aromas, the savory 
steam of boiling coffee* 

"My Marsa John," he continued, filling the cup with the 
smoking beverage, "never drank nuffin' but tea, eben at de big 
dinners when all de gemmen had coffee in de little cups— dats 
one ob 'em you 's drinkin' out ob now ; dey ain't mo' dan f o' 
on 'em left. Old marsa would have his pot ob tea: Henny 
use' ter make it for him ; makes it now for Miss Nancy. 

"Henny was a young gal den, long 'fo' we was married. 
Henny b'longed to Colonel Lloyd Barbour, on de next plan- 
tation to oum. 

"Mo' coffee, Major?" I handed Chad the empty cup. He 
refilled it, and went straight on without drawing breath. 

" Wust scrape I eber got into wid old Marsa John was ober 
Henny. I tell ye she was a harricane in dem days. She come 
into de kitchen one time where I was helpin' git de dinner 
ready an' de cook had gone to de spring house, an' she says : — 

" *Chad, what ye cookin' dat smells so nice?' 

" 'Dat's a goose,' I says, 'cookin' for Marsa John's din- 
ner. We got quality,' says I, pointin' to de dinin'-room do'. 

"'Quality!' she says. 'Spec' I know what de quality is. 
Dat's for you an' de cook.' 

"Wid dat she grabs a caarvin' knife from de table, opens 
de do' ob de big oven, cuts off a leg ob de goose, an' dis'pears 
round de kitchen corner wid de leg in her mouf. 

" 'Fo' I knowed whar I was Marsa John come to de 
kitchen do' an' says, 'Gittin' late, Chad ; bring in de dinner.* 
You see. Major, dey ain't no up an' down stairs in de Gig 
house, like it is yer ; kitchen an' dinin'-room all on de same flo'. 

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"Well, sah, I was scared to def, but I tuk dat goose an' 
laid him wid de cut side down on de bottom of de pan 'fo' 
de cook got back, put some dressin' an' stuffin' ober him, an* 
shet de stove do'. Den I tuk de sweet potatoes an' de hom- 
iny an' put 'em on de table, an' den I went back in de kitchen 
to git de baked ham. I put on de ham an' some mo' dishes, 
an' marsa says, lookin' up : — 

" *I t'ought dere was a roast goose, Chad ?' 

" *I ain't yerd nothin' 'bout no goose,' I says. 'I'll ask de 

"Next minute I yerd old marsa a-hollerin': — 

" 'Mammy Jane, ain't we got a goose?' 

" 'Lord-a-massy ! yes, marsa. Chad, you wu'thless nigger, 
ain't you tuk dat goose out yit?' 

" 'Is we got a goose?' said I. 

" *Is we got a goose? Didn't you help pick it?' 

"I see whar my hair was short, an' I snatched up a hot 
dish from de hearth, opened de oven do', an' slide de goose in 
jes as he was, an' lay him down befo' Marsa John. 

" 'Now see what de ladies '11 have for dinner,' says old 
marsa, pickin* up his caarvin' knife. 

"'What '11 you take for dinner, miss?' says I. 'Baked 

" 'No,' she says, lookin' up to whar Marsa John sat ; 'I 
think I '11 take a leg ob dat goose' — ^jes so. 

"Well, marsa cut off de leg an' put a little stuffin' an* gravy 
on wid a spoon, an' says to me, 'Chad, see what dat gemman 
'11 have.' 

" 'What '11 you take for dinner, sah ?' says I. 'Nice breast 
o' goose, or slice o' ham ?' 

" *No; I think I'll take a leg of dat goose,' he says. 

" *I didn't say nuffin', but I knowed bery well he wa'n't 
a-gwine to git it. 

"But, Major, you oughter seen old marsa lookin' for der 
udder leg ob dat goose ! He rolled him ober on de dish, dis 
way an' dat way, an' den he jabbed dat ole bone-handled caar- 
vin' fork in him an' hel' him up ober de dish an' looked 
under him an' on top ob him, an' den he says, kinder sad 
like: — 

" 'Chad, whar is de udder leg ob dat goose?' 

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" *It did n't hab none,' says I. 

" *You mean ter say, Chad, dat de gooses on my plantation 
on'y got oneleg?' 

" 'Some ob 'em has an' some ob 'em ain't. You see, marsa, 
we got two kinds in de pond, an' we was a little boddered to- 
day, so Mammy Jane cooked dis one 'cause I cotched it fust.' 

" 'Well,' said he, lookin' like he look when he send for 
you in de little room, I'll settle wid ye after dinner/ 

"Well, dar I was shiverin' an' shakin' in my shoes, an' 
droppin' gravy an' spillin' de wine on de table-cloth, I was 
dat shuck up; an' when de dinner was ober he calls all de 
ladies an' gemmen, an' says, *Now come down to de duck 
pond. I'm gwineter show dis nigger dat all de gooses on my 
plantation got mo' den one leg.' 

"I followed 'long, trapesin' after de whole kit an' b'ilin', 
an' when we got to de pond" — ^here Chad nearly went into a 
convulsion with suppressed laughter — "dar was de gooses sit- 
tin' on a log in de middle of dat ole green goose-pond wid one 
leg stuck down — so— an' de udder tucked under de wing." 

Chad was now on one leg, balancing himself by my chair, 
the tears running down his cheeks. 

"'Dar, marsa,' says I, 'don't ye see? Look at dat ole gray 
goose ! Dat's de berry match ob de one we had to-day.' 

"Den de ladies all hollered an' de gemmen laughed so loud 
dey yerd 'em at de big house. 

" 'Stop, you black scoun'rel !' Marsa John says, his face 
gittin' white an' he a-jerkin' his handkerchief from his pocket. 

"Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame 
grasshopper if ebery one ob dem gooses did n't put down de 
udder leg I 

" 'Now, you lyin' nigger,' he says, raisin' his cane ober 
my head, 'I '11 show you' — 

" 'Stop, Marsa John !' I hollered ; ' 't ain't fair, 't ain't fair.' 

" 'Why ain't it fair?' says he. 

'"'Cause,' says I, 'you did n't say "Shoo!" to de goose 
what was on de table.' "* 

•Thia story, and the story of the "Postmaster" in a preceding chapter. I have told 
for so many years and to so manv people, and with such varied amplifications, that 
I have long since persuaded myself that^ tiiey are creations of my own. I surmise, 
however, that the oasis of the "Postmaster*^ can be found in toe comer of some 
forgotten newspaper, and I know that the "One-Legged Goose" is as old at the 

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Chad laughed until he choked. 

"And did he thrash you?" 

"Marsa John? No, sah. He laughed loud as anybody; 
an' den dat night he says to me as I was puttin' some wood on 
de fire : — 

" 'Chad, where did dat leg go?' An' so I ups an' tells him 
all about Henny, an' how I was lyin' 'cause I was 'feared de 
gal would git hurt, an' how she was on'y a-foolin', thinkin' it 
was my goose; an' den de ole marsa look in de fire for a 
long time, an' den he says : — 

" *Dat's Colonel Barbour's Henny, ain't it, Chad?' 

" *Yes, marsa,' says I. 

'^Well, de next mawnin' he had his black horse saddled, 
an' I held the stirrup for him to git on, an' he rode ober to 
de Barbour plantation, an' did n't come back till plumb black 
night. When he come up I held de lantern so I could see his 
face, for I wa'n't easy in my mine all day. But it was all 
bright an' shinin' same as a' angel's. 

" *Chad,' he says, handin' me de reins, 'I bought yo' Henny 
dis artemoon from Colonel Barbour, an' she's comin' ober 
to-morrow, an' you can bofe git married next Sunday.' " 

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John Smith 

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AT Jamestown was planted. May 13, 1607, the first pennanent 
colony of the English-speaking nation in the New World, For 
this settlement we are, therefore, able to claim many of the "firsts" 
of American history, such as the first Protestant Church, the estab- 
lishment of representative government, the organization of the 
county system of government, and the first resistance to English 

It is also true, but not so well known, that the first book written 
on American soil was produced at Jamestown within the first thir- 
teen months of the life of the colony. The work was entitled: 

"^ True Relation of such occurrences and accidents of noate as 
hath hapned in Virginia since the first planting of that Collony, 
which is now resident in the South part thereof, till the last returne 
from thence. 

Written by Captain Smith, Coronell of the said Collony, to a wor- 
shipfull friend of his in England. 

London: Printed for John Tappe, and are to bee solde at the Grey- 
hound in PauleS'Church-yard, by W. W. 1608.'' 

We have quoted the title-page in full because of its quaintness, 
but the work is generally known as 'Smith's True Relation,' the 
author being no other than the much-talked-of and written-about 
John Smith, gentleman and soldier of fortune, by some designated 
as the "Founder of Virginia." If Smith in history may not be 
properly designated as the founder of Virginia, at least he was for 
two years and a half the mainstay of a colony almost on the verge 
of ruin. In literature, however, he is certainly entitled to be desig- 
nated as the founder of American literature if the authorship of 
the first book written on American soil entitles one to that honor. 

John Smith was born in Lincolnshire, England, 1579, of parents 
of good English stock, and was left an orphan at the age of thir- 
teen. Filled with the spirit of adventure, he early began a wander- 
ing life, visiting France, Holland, Belgium, and Scotland, and then, 
still a lad, he returned to his native Lincolnshire, where he lived for 
a while the life of a hermit. Yielding to the persuasion of some 
friends, he gave up his lonely life, but again resumed his adven- 

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tures on the Continent. Having lost his all at the hands of highway 
robbers, in France, he proceeded to Italy on board a ship whose 
passengers were pilgrims on their way to visit the holy shrines at 
Rome. A storm arose, and the superstitious passengers, believing 
that the heretic, Smith, was the cause of their danger, cast him 
overboard, but being a good swimmer he reached a small island 

After adventures in Italy, Smith joined the German Christians in 
their wars against the Turks, in which he proved a good soldier, 
and was soon made a captain in the army of Prince Sigismund. He 
tells the story of having defeated in succession three Turkish war- 
riors who had challenged any officer among the Christian forces to 
single combat. Upon Smith's coat-of-arms were placed three Turks' 
heads, by some thought to have been adopted by him on account of 
this eventful incident in his life, though, as a matter of fact, the 
use of three Turks', or Saracens', heads upon the shield has been 
common since the days of the Crusades. Soon after this. Smith was 
captured by the Turks and sold as a slave to a Turkish lady of rank, 
who, according to Smith, became greatly attached to him, and, fear- 
ing that harm might befall him from one of her suitors, entrusted 
him to the care -of her brother, who lived in Asia. By this Turkish 
nobleman he was cruelly treated, his beard and hair were shaven, 
and an iron collar was riveted about his neck. Shortly afterward 
he escaped into Russia, having killed his master, and again visited 
Prince Sigismund, who rewarded him with a purse of fifteen hun- 
dred ducats to replace his losses in the services of Germany. 

After traveling in northern Africa, he returned to England in 
1604, 2it a time when efforts were being made to organize the Vir- 
ginia companies. He at once interested himself in the movement, 
and, on the granting of the charter to the London Company, agreed 
to go in person to Virginia, and was by King James appointed as one 
of the seven members of the council resident in the colony. 

On December 19, 1606, Smith departed for Virginia with the 
little band of colonists who sailed in the three ships, Susan Constant, 
Godspeed and Discovery. He doubtless did much boasting of his 
prowess and of the things which he would accomplish when the 
shores of Virginia were reached; at least, for some cause, he fell 
into disrepute with the leading gentlemen who were proceeding to 
Virginia, and before reaching the New World was placed under 
arrest on the charge of mutiny. After arriving in Virginia, he was 
tried and acquitted of the charge, and soon became the chief explorer 
among the colonists. 

From June i, 1607, until September, 1609, he was constantly 
active. He explored the James River, the Chickahominy River, the 

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Chesapeake Bay and its many tributaries, and every time he returned 
to Jamestown he found everything in a state of confusion. One 
after another of the presidents of the council were removed, and 
finally, in September, 1608, the people forced Smith to assume the 
reins of government as president. It was he who, during the period 
that he lived in Virginia, was constantly called upon to secure the 
necessary provisions to prevent starvation and to ward off Indian 
attacks. In the autumn of 1609 he was wounded by the explosion 
of some gunpowder and was forced to return to England, never 
again to visit Virginia. He seemed to have lost the good opinion 
of the London Company, for he was never again in its employ, though 
such a man as Ratcliffe, who, according to Smith, was a great scoun- 
drel, was again intrusted with important duties after Smith's return 
to England. 

Little is known of Smith for the next five years, save that, in 
1612, his 'Description of Virginia' was published at Oxford. But 
in 1614 he comes again prominently to light in connection with 
American discoveries, undertaking, at the persuasion of some Lon- 
don merchants, to explore the coast of New England, of which he 
published a description in 161 6. He proposed the establishment of a 
colony in New England, chiefly with the idea of carrying on a trade 
in fish, and the Pl)rmouth Company conferred upon him the title of 
Admiral of New England. His efforts were fruitless, and he de- 
scribes them in his 'New England's Trials,' published in London in 

The remaining days of his life he spent in revising his early 
productions and in writing other books. He died on the twenty- 
first of June, 1631, and was buried in Saint Sepulchre's Church, 

This brief account of Smith is based upon what he wrote concern- 
ing himself. Of his adventures before he became connected with 
the London Company, we have no account save his own; but of the 
general part he played in the Virginia colony, we have some account 
in the writings of such men as Percy, Strachey, Newport, Wing- 
field, Hamor, Spelman, and Purchas ; none of these writers, however, 
gives any account of Smith's adventures; for these, therefore, we 
must rely on the Captain's account of himself. 

To this sketch is appended a list of his works, all of which relate 
to what Smith himself did, and recount his adventures in one form 
or another, save 'An Accidence : or. The Pathway to Experience' and 
'A Sea Grammar.' All were written by Smith except the 'Generall 
Historie,' which is a compilation from many sources— chiefly from 
men who had figured in American colonization — edited by Smith, 
with running comments. 

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Of the list given, two were undoubtedly written on Virginia soil 
The first of these books, 'A True Relation/ was sent from James- 
town to London by Captain Nelson, of the Phenix, which sailed 
from Jamestown on June 2, 1608. Another production written in 
Virginia, not mentioned in this list but included in his 'Generall His- 
torie,' was his letter to the London Company, usually designated as 
"Smith's Rude Answer," a sharp reply which Smith made to the 
London Company when it complained of the Virginia government, 
which reply was sent to England by Captain Newport about the dose 
of the year 1608. With it was sent the second book mentioned, 'A 
Map of Virginia, Description and Appendix,' etc., which, however, 
was not printed until 161 2, after Smith had returned to England. 

Smith's writings are deserving of a place in literature. They 
are not merely dry chronicles of facts, but racy productions of a 
man of action, narrating stories of adventure, filled with an appre- 
ciation of the beauties of nature and a keen humor and insight into 
human life, whether savage or civilized. His first book, *A True 
Relation,' is graphic in style and of intense interest because of the 
information it gives us about the beginnings of English colonization. 
It is not a tedious description, but a narrative of action, giving the 
story of the colony from the beginning of the voyage in 1606 to the 
last of May, 1608. 

It is interesting to note that in this True Relation' Smith tells 
the story of his capture by the Indians under Opechancanough, who 
delivered him into the hands of Powhatan. He speaks kindly of their 
treatment of him, and says nothing of any attempt on the part of 
Powhatan to put him to death or of the rescue by Pocahontas. The 
account of his rescue by Pocahontas he gives in his 'Generall His- 
toric,' which was published in London after the Princess Pocahontas, 
then Mrs. John Rolfe, had visited England and had been received 
at Court Pocahontas being well known in England, the story of his 
rescue by her would naturally attract attention to Smith's 'Generall 
Historie.' This has caused some historians to doubt Smith's account 
of his rescue by Pocahontas, while other historians have claimed that 
the omission of this account from the 'True Relation' was natural 
in view of the fact that its publication in 1608 would have pre- 
vented migration to Virginia, and that, therefore, for commercial 
reasons, the story of his narrow escape from death was omitted 
from his first publication. 

In reading the True Relation,' we find that Smith was not a 
polished and finished writer. He frequently confused the cases of 
pronouns and the agreement of verbs with subjects. It is the book 
of a rugged soldier, written in haste, to the point, but withal having 
a sentence structure clear and terse and a vocabulary not unlike that 

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of the King James version of the Bible, though the sentences are 
far more crude and less rhetorical. One realizes on reading it that 
Smith is entitled to a place along with the gentlemen scholars and 
soldiers of the day — Raleigh, Philip Sidney and others — ^though of 
not the same inbred culture. Still, it should be said that, taking 
his works all in all, while the use of coarse and vulgar language 
was so common in his time, especially among playwrights like Ben 
Jonson — Shakespeare himself not being free from it — Smith seemed 
to have an inborn dislike for it, and little that is objectionable is 
found in his works, though the opportunity for its use is frequent 

The "Rude Answer," so often quoted as literature, has no special 
place save as an epistolary type of a business report, filled with 
indignation and disgust at the ignorance of the leaders in the Lon- 
don Company. 

With reference to Smith's 'Map and Description of Virginia/ 
it is generally thought that the descriptive part was furnished to 
Dr. William Simmonds for revision before publication, while the 
second part is undoubtedly a combined production of at least six 
friends of Smith. This book — for it is entitled to be called a book 
— deals chiefly with Smith's explorations of the Chesapeake Bay 
and its many tributaries. As literature, it is deserving of mention 
on account of its picturesque narrative and vein of humor, and its 
accurate descriptions enlivened by Smith's good humor. His pen pic- 
tures are excellent. Of the advantages of the colony of Virginia, 
he says: "So, then, here is a place, a nurse for soldiers, a prac- 
tice for mariners, a trade for merchants, a reward for the good; 
and that which is most of all, a business, most acceptable to God, to 
bring such poor infidels to the knowledge of God and his holy gos- 
pel." Professor Moses Coit Tyler, in his 'History of American 
Literature,' in commenting on this sentence, says: "We may be 
well content to let this strong and beautiful sentence linger in our 
memories as the last one we shall draw from Captain John Smith's 
American writings, and as an honorable token of his broad and 
clear grasp of the meaning of that great national impulse which 
stirred the heart of England in his time, for the founding of a 
new English empire in America." 


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A True Relation, etc London, 1608. 

A Map of Virginia, Description and Appendix. Oxford, 1612. 

A Description of New England, etc London, 1616. 

New England's Trials, etc. London, 1620. Second edition, en- 
larged, 1622. 

The Generall Historic, etc. London, 1624. Reissued, with date 
of title-page altered, in 1626, 1627, and twice in 1632. 

An Accidence: or. The Pathway to Experience, etc. London, 

A Sea Grammar, etc. London, 1627. Followed by editions in 
1653 and 1699. 

The True Travels, etc. London, 1630. 

Advertisements for the Unexperienced Planters of New Eng- 
land, etc. London, 1631. 


From 'A True Relation/ etc 

KiNDE Sir, commendations remembred, &c. You shall 
vnderstand that after many crosses in the downes by tem- 
pests, wee arriued safely vppon the Southwest part of the 
great Canaries: within foure or fine daies after we set saile 
for Dominica, the 26. of Aprill: the first land we made, wee 
fell with Cape Henry, the verie mouth of the Bay of Chissia- 
piacke, which at that present we little expected, hauing by a 
cruell storme bene put to the Northward: 

Anchoring in this Bay twentie or thirtie went a shore 
with the Captaine, and in comming aboard (on land), they 
were assalted with certaine Indians, which charged them with- 
in PistoII shot : in which conflict, Captaine Archer and Mathew 
Morton were shot: whereupon Captaine Newport seconding 
them, made a shot at them, which the Indians little respected, 
but hauing spent their arrowes retyred without harme. And 
in that place was the Box opened, wherein the Counsel! for 
Virginia was nominated: and arriuing at the place (James 
Town) where wee are now seated, the Counsel! was sworn, 
and the President elected which for that yeare was Maister 


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Edm. Maria Wingfield, where was made choice for our scitu- 
ation, a verie fit place for the erecting of a great cittie, about 
which some contention passed betwixt Captaine Wingfield and 
Captaine Gosnold: notwithstanding, all our provision was 
brought a shore, and with as much speede as might bee wee 
went about our fortification. 

The two and twenty day of Aprill (or rather May 1607), 
Captaine Newport and my selfe with diuers others, to the 
number of twenty two persons, set forward to discouer the 
Riuer, some fiftie or sixtie miles, finding it in some places 
broader, and in some narrower, the Countrie (for the moste 
part) on each side plaine high ground, with many fresh 
Springes, the people in all places kindely intreating vs, daun- 
sing and feasting vs with strawberries, Mulberries, Bread, 
Fish, and other their Countrie prouisions wherof we had 
plenty: for which Captaine Newport kindely requited their 
least fauours with Bels, Pinnes, Needles, beades, or Glasses, 
which so contented them that his liberallitie made them follow 
vs from place to place, and euer kindely to respect vs. In 
the midway staying to refresh our selues in a little He foure 
or fiue sauages came vnto vs which described vnto vs the 
.course of the Riuer, and after in our iourney, they often met 
vs, trading with vs for such prouision as wee had, and ariuing 
at Arsatecke, hee whom we supposed to bee the chiefe King 
of all the rest, moste kindely entertained vs, giuing vs in a 
guide to go with vs vp the Riuer to Powhatan, of which place 
their great Emperor taketh his name, where he that they hon- 
oured for King vsed vs kindely. But to finish this discouerie, 
we passed on further, where within an ile (a mile) we were 
intercepted with great craggy stones in the midst of the riuer, 
where the water falleth so rudely, and with such a violence, 
as not any boat can possibly passe, and so broad disperseth 
the streame, as there is not past fiue or sixe Foote at a low 
water, and to the shore scarce passage with a barge, the water 
floweth foure foote, and the freshes by reason of the Rockes 
haue left markes of the inundation 8. or 9. foote : The south 
side is plaine low ground, and the north side high mountaines, 
the rockes being of a grauelly nature, interlaced with many 
vains of glistring spangles. 

That night we returned to Powhatan: the next day (being 

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Whitsunday after dinner) we returned to the fals, leaning m 
mariner in pawn with the Indians for a guide of theirs, hee 
that they honoured for King followed vs by the riuer. That 
afternoone we trifled in looking vpon the Rockes and riuer 
(further he would not goe) so there we erected a crosse, and 
that night taking our man at Powhatan, Captaine Newport 
congratulated his kindenes with a Gown and a Hatchet: re- 
turning to Arsetecke, and stayed there the next day to obserue 
the height (latitude) thereof, and so with many signes of 
loue we departed. 

The next day the Queene of Agamatack kindely intreated 
vs, her people being no less contented than the rest, and from 
thence we went to another place (the name whereof I doe 
not remember) where the people shewd vs the manner of their 
diuing for Mussels, in which they finde Pearles. 

That night passing by Weanock some twentie miles from 
our Fort, they according to their former churlish condition, 
seemed little to affect vs, but as wee departed and lodged at 
the point of Weanocke, the people the next morning seemed 
kindely to content vs, yet we might perceiue many signes of a 
more lealousie in them then before, and also the Hinde that 
the King of Arseteck had giuen vs, altered his resolution in 
going to our Fort, and with many kinde circumstances left vs 
there. This gaue vs some occasion to doubt some mischiefe 
at the Fort, yet Captaine Newport intended to haue visited 
Paspahegh and Tappahanocke, but the instant change of the 
winde being faire for our return we repaired to the fort w^ith 
all speed (27 May), where the first we heard was that 400. 
Indians the day before (26 May) had assalted the fort, and 
supprised it, had not God (beyond al their expectations) by 
meanes of the shippes (at whom they shot with their Ordi- 
nances and Muskets) caused them to retire, they had entred 
the fort with our own men, which were then busied in setting 
Corne, their armes beeing then in driefats, and few ready but 
certain Gentlemen of their own, in which conflict, most of 
the Counsel was hurt, a boy slaine in the Pinnas, and thirteen 
or fourteene more hurt. 

With all speede we pallisadoed our Fort: (each other day) 
for sixe or seauen daies we had alarums by ambuscadoes and 
four or flue cruelly wounded by being abroad: the Indians 


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losse wee know not, but as they report three were slain and 
diuers hurt. 

Captaine Newport hauing set things in order, set saile for 
England the 22 of June (1607), leaning prouision for 13. or 
14. weeks. 

The day before the Ships departure, the King of Pa- 
maunke {i.e., Opechancanough) sent the Indian that had met 
vs before in our discouerie, to assure vs peace; our fort being 
then palisadoed round, and all our men in good health and 
comfort, albeit that thro(w)gh some discontented humours, it 
did not so long continue. For the President and Captaine 
Gosnold, with the rest of the Counsell, being for the moste 
part discontented with one another, in so much, that things 
were neither carried with that discretion nor any busines ef- 
fected in such good sort as wisdome would, nor our owne 
good and safetie required, whereby, and through the hard 
dealing of our President, the rest of the counsell beeing diuers- 
lie affected through his audacious commaund; and for Cap- 
taine Martin, albeit verie honest, and wishing the best good, 
yet so sicke and weake; and my selfe so disgrac'd through 
others mallice; through which disorder God (being angrie 
with vs) plagued vs with such famin and sicknes, that the 
Huing were scarce able to bury the dead; our want of suffi- 
cient and good victualls, with continuall watching, foure or 
fine each night at three Bulwarkes, being the chiefe cause: 
onely of Sturgeion wee had great store, whereon our men 
would so greedily surf et, as it cost manye their Hues : the Sack, 
Aquauitie, and other greseruatiues for our health, being kept 
onely in the Presidents hands, for his owne diet, and his few 

Shortly after Captaine Gosnold fell sicke, and within three 
weekes died. Captaine Ratcliffe being then also verie sicke 
and weake, and my selfe hauing also tasted of the extremitie 
thereof, but by Gods assistance being well recouered. Ken- 
dall about this time, for diuers reasons deposed from being 
of the Councell: and shortly after it pleased God (in our ex- 
tremity) to moue the Indians to bring vs Corne, ere it was 
halfe ripe, to refresh vs, when we rather expected when tliey 
would destroy vs: 

About the tenth of September there was about 46. of our 

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men dead, at which time Captaine Wingfield hauing ordred 
the affaires in such sort that he was generally hated of all, in 
which respect with one consent he was deposed from his presi- 
dencies and Captaine Ratcliffe according to his course was 

Our prouision being now within twentie dayes spent, the 
Indians brought vs great store both of Corne and bread ready 
made: and also there came such aboundancc of Fowles into 
the Riuers, as greatly refreshed our weake estates, where- 
vppon many of our weake men were presently able to goc 

As yet we had no houses to couer vs, our Tents were rot- 
ten, and our Cabbins worse then nought ; our best commoditie 
was Yron which we made into little chissels. 

The president (*s), and Captaine Martins sicknes, con- 
strayned me to be Cape Marchant, and yet to spare no paines 
in making houses for the company ; who notwithstanding our 
misery, little ceased their mallice, grudging, and muttering. 

As at this time were most of our chiefest men either sicke 
or discontented, the rest being in such dispaire, as they would 
rather starue and rot with idlenes, then be perswaded to do 
anything for their owne relief e without constraint: our vic- 
tualles being now within eighteene dayes spent, and the In- 
dians trade decreasing, I was sent to the mouth of the riuer, 
to Kegquohtan, an Indian Towne, to trade for Come, and try 
the riuer for Fish, but our fishing we could not effect by reason 
of the stormy weather. The Indians thinking vs neare fam- 
ished, with carelesse kindnes, offred vs little pieces of bread 
and small handfulls of beanes or wheat, for a hatchet or a 
piece of copper: In like man(n)er I entertained their kindnes, 
and in the like scorne offered them like commodities, but the 
Children, or any that shewed extraordinary kindnes, I lib- 
erally contented with free gifte (of) such trifles as wel con- 
tented them. 

Finding this colde comfort, I anchored before the Towne, 
and the next day returned to trade, but God (the absolute 
disposer of all heartes) altered their conceits, for now they 
were no lesse desirous of our commodities then we of their 
Corne : vnder colour to fetch fresh water, I sent a man to dis- 
couer the Towne, their Corne, and force, to trie their intent, 

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in that they desired me vp to their houses : which well vnder- 
standing, with foure shot I visited them. With fish, oysters, 
bread, and deere, they kindly traded with me ajid my men, 
beeing no lesse in doubt of my intent, then I of theirs ; for well 
I might with twentie men haue f raighted a Shippe with Come : 
The Towne conteineth eighteene houses, pleasantly seated 
vpon three acres of ground, vppon a plaine, halfe inuironed 
with a great Bay of the great Riuer, the other parte with a 
Baye of the other Riuer falling into the great Baye, with a 
litle He fit for a Castle in the mouth thereof, the Towne ad- 
ioyning to the maine by a necke of Land of sixtie yardes. 

With sixteene bushells of Corne I returned towards our 
Forte : by the way I encountred with two Canowes of Indians, 
who came aboord me, being the inhabitants of waroskoyack, a 
kingdome on the south side of the riuer, which is in breadth 
5. miles and 20 mile or neare from the mouth : With these I 
traded, who hauing but their hunting prouision, requested me 
to returne to their Towne, where I should load my boat with 
come: and with near thirtie bushells I returned to the fort, 
the very name wherof gaue great comfort to our despa(i)ring 
company : 

Time thus passing away, and hauing not aboue 14. daies 
victuals left, some motions were made about our presidents 
(Captaine Rat cliff e's) and Captaine Archers going for Eng- 
land, to procure a supply : in which meane time we had reason- 
ably fitted vs with houses. And our President and Captaine 
Martin being able to walk abroad, with much adoe it was con- 
cluded, that the pinnace and barge should goe towards Pow- 
hatan, to trade for come : 

Lotts were cast who should go in her, the chance was 
mine ; and while she was a rigging, I made a voiage to Topo- 
hanack, where arriuing, there was but certain women and 
children who fled from their houses, yet at last I drew them 
to draw neere ; truck they durst not, corne they had plenty, and 
to spoile I had no commission : 

In my retume to (at) Paspahegh, I traded with that 
churlish and trecherous nation: hauing loaded 10 or 12 bushels 
of corne, they offred to take our pieces and swords, yet by 
stelth, but {we) seeming to dislike it, they were ready to 
assault vs : yet standing vpon our guard in coasting the shore. 

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diuers out of the woods would meet with vs with corn and 
trade. But least we should be constrained, either to indure 
ouermuch wrong or directly (to) fal to reuenge, seeing them 
dog vs from place to place, it being night, and our necessitie 
not fit for warres, we tooke occasion to returne with lo bush- 
ells of come : 

>K >K >K >K >K >K 


From *A True Relation,' etc. 

Their religion and Ceremonie I obserued was thus: 
Three or foure dayes after my taking, seuen of them in the 
house where I lay, each with a rattle, began at ten a clocke in 
the morning to sing about the fire, which they inuironed with a 
Circle of meale, and after a f oote or two from that, at the end 
of each song layde downe two or three graines of wheate: 
continuing this order till they haue included sixe or seuen 
hundred in a half e Circle ; and after that, two or three more 
Circles in like maner, a hand bredth from other. That done, 
at each song, they put betwixt euerie three, two, or fiue graines, 
a little sticke ; so counting as an old woman her Pater noster. 

One disguised with a great Skinne, his head hung round 
with little Skinnes of Weasels and other vermine, with a 
Crownet of feathers on his head, painted as vgly as the diuell, 
at the end of each song will make many signes and demonstra- 
tions, with strange and vehement actions, great cakes of Deere 
suet, Deare, and Tobacco he casteth in the fire: till sixe a 
clocke in the Euening, their howling would continue ere they 
would depart. 

Each morning in the coldest frost, the principall, to the 
number of twentie or thirtie, assembled themselves in a round 
circle, a good distance from the towne: where they told me 
they there consulted where to hunt the next day : 

So fat they fed mee, that I much doubted they intended to 
haue sacrificed mee to the Ouiyoughquosicke, which is a super- 
iour power they worship: a more uglier thing cannot be de- 
scribed. One they haue for chief sacrifices, which also they 
call Quiyoughquosick. To cure the sick, a man, with a Rat- 

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tie, and extreame howling, showting, singing, and such violent 
gestures and Anticke actions ouer the patient, will sucke out 
blood and flegme from the patient, out of their vnable stom- 
acke, or any diseased place, as no labour will more tire them. 

Tobacco, they offer the water in passing in f owle weather. 
The death of any they lament with great sorrow and weep- 
ing. Their Kings they burie betwixt two mattes within their 
houses, with all his beads, iewels, hatchets, and copper: the 
other in graues like ours. They acknowledge no resurrection. 

Powhatan hath three brethren, and two sisters, each of his 
brethren succeeded (succeedeth or will succeed) other. For 
the Crowne, their heyres inherite not, but the first heyres of 
the Sisters, and so successiuely the weomens heires. For the 
Kings haue as many weomen as they will, his Subjects two, 
and most but one. , . . 


From 'A True Relation/ etc. 

The twenty of Aprill (1608), being at worke, in hewing 
downe Trees, and setting Corne, an alarum caused vs with all 
speede to take our armes, each expecting a new assault of the 
Saluages: but vnderstanding it {to be) a Bote vnder saile, our 
doubts were presently satisfied with the happy sight of Maister 
Nelson, his many perrills of extreame stormes and tempests 
{passed) y his ship well as his company could testifie, his care 
in sparing our prouision was well : but the prouidence {pro- 
vider) thereof, as also of our stones, Hatchets and other tooles 
(onely ours excepted) which of all the rest was most neces- 
sary: which might in force vs to thinke {him) either a sedi- 
tious traitor to our action, or a most vnconscionable deceiuer 
of our treasures. 

This happy arriuall of Maister Nelson in the Phenix, 
hauing beene then about three monethes missing after Captaine 
Nuports arriuall, being to all our expectations lost : albeit that 
now at the last, hauing beene long crossed with tempestuous 
weather and contrary winds, his so vnexpected comming did so 
rauish vs with exceeding joy, that now we thought our selues 

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as well fitted as our harts could wish, both with a competent 
number of men, as also for all other needfull prouisions, till a 
further supply should come vnto vs. 

Whereupon the first thing that was concluded was that my 
selfe and Maister Scriuener, should with 70. men goe with the 
best meanes we could prouide, to discouer beyond the Falls, 
as in our iudgements conueniently we might. Six or seauen 
daies we spent only in trayning our men to march, fight and 
scirmish in the woods. Their willing minds to this action so 
quickned their vnderstanding in this exercise as, in all iudge- 
ments, wee were better able to fight with Powhatans whole 
force, in our order of battle amongst the Trees (for Thicks 
there is few) then the Fort was to repulse 400. at the first 
assault, with some tenne or twentie shot not knowing what to 
doe, nor how to vse a piece. 

Our warrant being sealed, Maister Nelson refused to 
assiste vs with the voluntary Marriners and himself, as he 
promised, vnlesse we would stand bound to pay the hire for 
shippe and Marriners, for the time they stayed. And further 
there was some controuersie, through the diuersitie of Con- 
trary opinions: some alleadging that how profitable, and to 
what good purpose soeuer our ioumey should portend, yet our 
commission commanding no certaine designe, we should be 
taxed for the most indiscreete men in the world, besides tl.e 
wrong we should doe to Captaine Nuport, to whom only all 
discoueries did belong, and to no other : 

The meanes for guides, besides the vncertaine courses of 
the riuer from which we could not erre much, each night would 
fortifie vs in two houres better then that they first called the 
Fort, their Townes vpon the riuer each within one days ioumey 
of other, besides our ordinary prouision, might well be sup- 
posed to adde relief e: for truck and dealing only, but in loue 
and peace, as with the rest. If they assalted vs, their Townes 
they cannot defend, nor their luggage so conuey that we should 
not share : but admit the worst, 16. daies prouisions we had of 
Cheese Oatmeale and bisket ; besides our rendevous we could, 
and might, haue hid in the ground. With six men, Captaine 
Martin would haue vndertaken it himselfe, leaning the rest to 
defend the Fort and plant our Corne. 

Yet no reason could be reason to proceede forward, though 

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we were going aboard to set saile. These discontents caused 
so many doubts to some, and discouragement to others, as our 
loumey ended. Yet some of vs procured petitions to set vs 
forward, only with hope of our owne confusions (disasters in 
the expedition). 

Our next course was to tume husbandmen, to fell Trees 
and set Come. Fiftie of our men we imployed in this seruice; 
the rest kept the Fort, to doe the command of the president 
and Captaine Martin. 

30. daies ( ? from 4 May to 2 June 1608) the ship (the 
Phnix) lay expecting the triall of certain matters which for 
some cause I keepe priuate. 


From 'The General Historie 'of Virginia.' 

Opitchapam the Kings brother invited him to his house, 
where, with as many platters of bread, foule, and wild beasts, 
as did environ him, he bid him wellcome ; but not any of them 
would eate a bit with him, but put vp all the remainder in 

At his returne to Opechancanoughs, all the Kings women, 
and their children, flocked about him for their parts; as a due 
by Custome, to be merry with such fragments. 

But his waking mind in hydeous dreames did oft see wondrous 

Of bodies strange, and huge in growth, and of stupendious 


At last they brought him to Meronocomoco (5 Jan. 1608), 
where was Powhatan their Emperor. Here more than two 
hundred of those grim Courtiers stood wondering at him, as 
he had beene a monster ; till Powhatan and his trayne had put 
themselues in their greatest braveries. Before a fire vpon a 
seat like a bedstead, he sat covered with a great robe, made of 
Rarowcun skinnes, and all the tayles hanging by. On either 
hand did sit a young wench of 16 or 18 yeares, and along on 
each side the house, two rowes of men, and behind them as 
many women, with all their heads and shoulders painted red ; 

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many of their heads bedecked with the white downe of Birds; 
but every one with something: and a great chayne of white 
beads about their necks. 

At his entrance before the King, all the people gaue a great 
shout. The Queene of Appamatuck was appointed to bring 
him water to wash his hands, and another brought him a bunch 
of feathers, in stead of a Towell to dry them : having feasted 
him after their best barbarous manner they could, a long con- 
sultation was held, but the conclusion was, two great stones 
were brought before Powhatan: then as many as could layd 
hands on him, dragged him to them, and thereon laid his head, 
and being ready with their clubs, to beate out his braines, Po- 
cahontas the Kings dearest daughter, when no intreaty could 
prevaile, got his head in her armes, and laid her owne vpon 
his to saue him from death: whereat the Emperor was con- 
tented he should liue to make him hatchets, and her bells, 
beads, and copper; for they thought him aswell of all occupa- 
tions as themselves. For the King himself e will make his owne 
robes, shooes, bowes, arrowes, pots; plant, hunt, or doe any 
thing so well as the rest. 

They say he bore a pleasant shew. 
But sure his heart was sad. 
For who can pleasant be, and rest. 
That Hues in feare and dread; 
And having life suspected, doth 
It still suspected lead. 

Two daies after (7. Jan, 1608), Powhatan having dis- 
guised himselfe in the most f earfullest manner he could, caused 
Captain Smith to be brought forth to a great house in the 
woods, anC. there vpon a mat by the fire to be left alone. Not 
long after fro-i behinde a mat that divided the house, was 
made the most dolef ullest noyse he ever heard ; then Powhatan 
more like a deuill than a man, with some two hundred more as 
blacke as himselfe, came vnto him and told him now they were 
friends, and presently he should goe to lames towne, to send 
him two great gunnes, and a gryndstone, for which he would 
giue him the Country of Capahowosick, and for ever esteeme 
him as his sonne Nantaquoud. 

So to lames towne with 12 guides Powhatan sent him. 


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That night (7. Jan. 1608) they quartered in the woods, he still 
expecting (as he had done all this long time of his imprison- 
ment) every houre to be put to one death or other : for aJl their 
feasting. But almightie God (by his divine prouidence) had 
mollified the hearts of those steme Barbarians with compas- 
sion. The next morning (8. Jan.) betimes they came to the 
Fort, where Smith having vsed the Saluages with what kind- 
ness he could, he shewed Rawhunt, Powhatans trusty ser- 
vant, two demi-Culverings and a millstone to carry Powhatan : 
they found them somewhat too heavie ; but when they did see 
him discharge them, being loaded with stones, among the 
boughs of a great tree loaded with Isickles, the yce and 
branches came so tumbling downe, that the poore Saluages ran 
away halfe dead with feare. But at last we regained some 
conference with them, and gaue them such toyes ; and sent to 
Powhatan, his women, and children such presents, as gaue 
them in generall full content, c; .. ,., 

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[1834- 1 


MARY STUART SMITH, wife of the widely-known and be- 
loved professor of natural philosophy, Francis H. Smith, was 
the second child of Gessner Harrison and Eliza Carter Tucker, his 
wife, and was born at the University of Virginia on February lo, 
1834. Her father, because of his distinguished ability, had been 
selected in the first flush of his manhood to succeed the renowned 
George Long of England when the latter relinquished the chair of 
ancient languages in the University of Virginia to become a professor 
in the University of London. In 1831 Gessner Harrison married 
the cultivated daughter of George Tucker, Jefferson's appointee to 
the chair of moral philosophy. Of this union came, first Maria Carter 
Harrison, and two years later Mary Stuart. These sisters were de- 
voted to each other, and from the day they left their nurse's arms 
were inseparable companions. When they were respectively twelve 
and ten years old they were put in the same class, where they studied 
side by side. At first they were sent to small private schools, but 
got their instruction chiefly through tutors, sometimes foreigners at- 
tracted to the University of Virginia by a desire to find employ- 
ment in so noted an institution. Some of these foreigners proved to 
be men of rare intellectual and linguistic attainments. As the 
girls grew into maturity they were accorded a still finer opportunity, 
for two of their father's colleagues and friends requested the privi- 
lege of giving them private instruction. Thus it came about that in 
one "delectable session" they were taught algebra and geometry by 
William B. Rogers, then the most eloquent lecturer on physics in 
America; and advanced French by the gifted author and professor, 
Scheie Dc Vcre. But the strongest and most lasting aspirations were 
not so much the result of these peculiar privileges as they were the 
immediate product of the very atmosphere breathed in the home, for 
both parents found their greatest pleasure in fostering their children's 
ambition and in imparting to them their own superior gifts. 

The hard-worked professor. Dr. Harrison, seemed to find his 
supremest recreation in teaching his own children, who never found 
irksome the lessons learned from him. Such was his skill as a 
teacher, gifted above all in making his high philological attainments 
available in the right instruction of beginners, that in six weeks of 

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one summer he taught his eldest children (sons had now been added 
to the happy family) enough German to enable them to read with 
readiness and profit the authors assigned the most advanced German 
classes in the University. 

Mary Stuart was peculiarly devoted to her father, and standing 
book in hand would patiently wait for several hours until her father 
should be sufficiently disengaged from his multifarious duties to hear 
her recite. No wonder the golden hours of such communing with such 
a father should still brighten with a sacred halo the evening of Mrs. 
Smith's life. Even her early attempts at versification — and she be- 
gan rhyming when she was nine — were for him not an occasion of 
good-natured merriment, but an opportunity to teach the simple laws 
of rhythm and to inculcate a higher poetical ideal by reading to 
her such selections as "Alexander's Feast." About this time she be- 
gan to write her first book, starting the first chapter without plan or 
purpose and desisting before the end or even the middle was reached. 
Like Lord Bacon, she must at this time have taken all knowledge for 
her sphere, for on one occasion Dr. Harrison discovered her sitting 
on the floor with a tremendously ponderous tome opened before her, 
and upon inquiry as to what she was doing got the startling answer : 
"Why, you see, papa, I want to read your whole library through, and 
I am starting at the bottom shelf." His wise direction changed her 
course without curbing her spirit of industrious acquisition, so that 
to this day she knows no such thing as ennui when a good book is in 
reach, and her well-worn Bible is the best of all books. 

Her early practice in rhyming first bore fruit in her twelfth year, 
when she was chosen May-Queen. Disappointed that no older person 
would write a poetical address for the young Queen, she assumed the 
sovereign task herself and accomplished it so well that time and again 
since then her address has been used by less gifted successors. 

While these sisters, Maria and Mary, inseparable companions as 
they were, had never gone to preparatory schools or graduated from 
any seminary, they had received excellent training, and, better still, 
had fallen so ardently in love with learning that they were students 
ever afterward. Their tastes turned naturally to foreign languages, 
in which their father so excelled, and in these they added, without 
ceasing, to their proficiency. 

The close union of these two sisters was in some measure dis- 
solved by the marriage, at nineteen, of Maria to John A. Broadus, 
later one of the most distinguished authors and ministers of the 
Southern Baptist Church. This married happiness lasted but a few 
brief years, for at the age of twenty-six Mrs. Broadus died. 

In 1853, two years after the marriage of Maria, Mary married 
Francis H. Smith. This was the same year in which he was selected 

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by the brilliant William B. Rogers to succeed him as professor of 
natural philosophy and duly appointed to that high office. The repu- 
tation of the professorship knew no decline, even in the first years of 
Professor Smith's incumbency, and steadily grew through his fifty- 
three years of service. He voluntarily relinquished his work, to the 
profound regret of his colleagues, and carried with him into his re- 
tirement a larger share of admiration, esteem and love than it is 
given most men to enjoy in their prime. Throughout more than fifty 
years Professor and Mrs. Smith have lived in one house on the lawn 
at the University of Virginia, where they still give joy by their 

Although Mrs. Smith wrote occasionally for the University of 
Virginia Magazine, and delighted to translate beautiful passages she 
encountered in her French and German reading, she did not become 
an author until the spur of necessity drove her to this employment 
after the Civil War. She then found her steadiest compensations in 
translating popular but pure novels, and in contributing to a ladies' 
journal articles on practical household matters. It should be said 
here that notwithstanding Mrs. Smith's literary tastes and occupa- 
tions, she attended so scrupulously to her own household duties as to 
earn the reputation of being an excellent housekeeper. This reputa- 
tion was materially enhanced and extended by the publication of her 
'Cookery Book,' a veritable handbook in many Southern homes. 

Her translations are numerous and exemplify her ideal as set 
forth in one of her early essays: "While a close comprehension of 
the meaning of the original text and the power of rendering it cor- 
rectly are the indispensable requisites of a good translation, yet at the 
same time a slavish literalism is by all means to be avoided. Without 
due care, in adhering too closely to the letter, the spirit may evap- 
. orate. Here are called into requisition not merely knowledge but 
delicacy of discernment and a certain sensitiveness to impressions 
from without; so to speak, the translator should for the time being 
lose his own identity and become imbued with the very spirit and life 
of his original, and thus clothe his impressions in such words as are 
the simple and spontaneous overflow of any cultivated mind seeking 
expression for a clearly defined train of thought.*' Mrs. Smith's cul- 
tivated mind has enabled her to reach just this desirable result, and 
her full and appreciative knowledge of good English has led her to 
find by patient seeking "almost an exact equivalent for any given 

But her literary productivity has not been limited to translation. 
Her 'Art of Housekeeping' may not belong to pure literature, but its 
note of poptdarity and its attention to style lift it above the plane of 
the merely practical. The Heirs of the Kingdom/ which won a prize 

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of three hundred dollars oflFercd for the best Sunday-school book, was 
reviewed at some length in the Southern Review for July, 1872, by 
Dr. A. T. Bledsoe, and pronounced the work of "a truly remarkable 

Her brother-in-law, Dr. Broadus, urged her to write a novel of 
University life and manners, but for this task she never felt herself 
adequate. She was moved, however, by the patriotic emotions en- 
gendered by the Philadelphia Centenial to give some expression to 
her own interest in our early heroes. Thereupon she wrote 'Lang 
Syne, or the Wards of Mt. Vernon : A Tale of the Revolution,' but 
nearly ten years elapsed before it was published. This book persuaded 
Dr. Broadus that she should go forward to a regular novel and in- 
duced Dr. A. D. Mayo and others to recommend its use as a patriotic 
reader in our schools. Mrs. Smith is now collecting for republica- 
tion her numerous contributions to magazines and journals, and 
finds that she has on hand enough material for two volumes of long 
essays, mainly reprints from the Southern Review, Southern Metho- 
dist Review, New York Church Review, New England Magazine, etc., 
one volume of translated poetry, one volume of original poetry, one 
volume of stories translated from the German, and one volume of 
original stories. Her friends can wish her no greater boon than time, 
strength, and inclination to see these volumes through the press, and 
themselves no greater gain than to possess them as a personal and 
intimate souvenir of a long and beautiful life, that has been to many 
a perpetual benediction. "It is no part of our object," wrote Dr. 
Bledsoe, and we repeat his words, "to make her blush whose mod- 
esty is the crowning glory of all her other virtues, but only to in- 
spire ourselves, and other lazy worms, with a sense of duty." 

"^^ic^^ /c/^^iZ^ 

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(The Birthplace of General Robert £. Lee.) 

This noble family-seat is to be found in Westmoreland, 
Virginia, that cradle of great men, for within her borders were 
born Washington, Monroe, the Lees and many others who 
have done eminent service to their country. The limits of 
this remarkable county are strangely narrow, too, for it con- 
sists but of a strip of land thirty miles long with an average 
width of twelve miles. A water-shed extends nearly its entire 
length, all water courses emptying on the one side, into the 
Rappahannock, and on the other side into the Potomac, for 
the latter river has many tributaries, abounding in fish, oys- 
ters, water-fowl and sora. 

At no point of its course does that grand river of the new 
world appear more majestic than where Pope's -and Bridge's 
Creeks empty themselves into its bosom, within sight of the 
birthplace of George Washington and Robert E. Lee. There, 
doubtless in boyhood, they enjoyed the sports of fishing, boat- 
ing, and hunting, with all the ardor of their high-strung na- 
tures, for, well stocked as are the forests and waters of this 
region with game of the most delicious sport, no spot could 
be more alluring to the sportsman. Indeed, we have General 
Lee's word for it, that he was very fond of hunting, when a 
boy, and that many a time, he would follow the hounds all 
day long, and that afoot. His having enured himself thus 
early to fatigue and the habit of constant exercise, out of 
doors, are thought to account for the periect development 
of his fine form, and his ability to sustain uninjured the hard- 
ships of a soldier's Hfe. 

The road leading from Westmoreland Court House to 
Stratford, like all the highways in this part of Virginia, is 
through a natural avenue of beautiful shade trees, deciduous, 
and, evergreen. Wherever the land is uncultivated, cedars 
spring up spontaneously, accompanied often by the satin-leaved 
holly, and, as the roads are smooth, and sandy, the effect is a 
marvelously delightful one — especially when the visitor hap- 
pens to come from the mountain regions of the state, where 

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broken rocks and tenacious clay do what they can to render 
roads bad and traveling disagreeable. 

In Westmoreland, too, a particularly fine breed of horses 
remain to testify of past glory, and in a double buggy, with a 
congenial companion, one bowls along charmingly, and with- 
out straining one's highbred steed, at the rate of ten miles an 
hour. If put to the test, the writer believes that the West- 
moreland horses would be found to excel those of other parts 
of the country, as decidedly as her public men have done 
other statesmen and patriots. 

Alighting before the front gate of the manor house, a 
servant takes charge of our vehicle, and sending in our cards, 
we are invited into the lofty and airy hall of imposing dimen- 
sions, upon which the front door opens. The plank floor is 
stained a dark brown, being highly polished and bare, now in 
August, for the custom in old Virginia has always been never 
to use carpets in the summer season. The walls are panelled, 
and several book-cases let into the wall, and furnished with 
glass doors, being well filled with books and magazines, many 
of them leather-backed and antique looking, bear silent testi- 
mony to the scholarly character of the inmates of this hon- 
orable mansion. 

A large comfortable sofa stands hospitably near the en- 
trance, an immense centre-table conveniently adjacent, while a 
tall hat-rack of painted iron becomes exceedingly interesting, 
when told that it is the sole piece of furniture in the hall, 
actually in use, when General Lee*s parents occupied the house, 
A cabinet organ ; the sound of children's voices in the distance, 
and an unmistakable but fragrant odor of quinces being pre- 
served, reminded us of the living present. 

The proprietor of Stratford at this time is Dr. Stewart, a 
genial gentleman, and a relative of General Lee's. He was 
not at home, but his pleasing young wife, Mrs. Stewart, soon 
made her appearance, bade us kindly welcome, and to the best 
of her ability seconded us in our endeavors to see all that was 
noteworthy about the place. She showed us the chamber 
where the great Confederate chieftain first saw the light, as 
had also, in a previous generation, Richard Henry Lee and his 
brother, Francis Lightfoot Lee, both Revolutionary heroes 
and signers of the Declaration of Independence, 

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We were next permitted to ascend to the roof of the house, 
where, from two watch towers, as it were, encircled by a bal- 
ustrade, and ensconced between the massive chimneys, ten 
feet across, one has a fine view of the surrounding country, 
and, when the trees have dropped their foliage, of the Potomac 
— many a time alive with craft of varied size, from the puffing 
steamer to the tiny fishing-smack. 

We were told that, in former times, the owners of Strat- 
ford had their own vessels trading between England and their 
estate, and that these posts of observation were used by the 
proprietor, much as the ship captain uses his lookout from the 

But now the conformation of the shore has greatly altered, 
and the water is very shallow and unnavigable, where two hun- 
dred years ago large merchant vessels could easily sail in, 
and safely ride at anchor. 

Now, from our station in one of these towers, we could 
only catch glimpses of the river through the trees, survey vast 
sweeps of forest land and inviting expanses of waving grain 
and grassy meadow. 

The present manor-house at Stratford has stood since 
early in the eighteenth century, being built to replace one that 
had been destroyed by fire. The materials for its construc- 
tion were made a present to the then proprietor, Honorable 
Thomas Lee, by the East India Company, with the addition 
of a large sum from the privy purse of Queen Caroline her- 
self. They builded well in those days, as the state of the 
edifice proclaims most eloquently. The brick is of a deep 
colored red, fine-grained, strong, and smooth ; the wood-work 
is perfectly preserved, and it looks as if it could, for hundreds 
of years yet to come, defy the assaults of wind and weather. 

The hall is surely of hospitable dimensions, containing 
nineteen rooms, and then, the four large square out-houses, at 
the corners of the lawn and back yard, are of the same fine 
brick as the main building, and if fitted up, could have really 
furnished the accommodation for a hundred guests, of which 
former chronicles have spoken to unbelieving ears. The sta- 
bles were evidently very capacious, but we did not visit them. 

Many beautiful shrubs and rare evergreens ornament the 
grounds, as is natural enough to expect in a country seat that 

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has been, for generations, the home of cultivated and refined 

When we took our leave of the sweet young mistress of 
this venerable mansion, she bade us help ourselves to any flower 
or spray of evergreen that we might like to take with us, as a 
memento of our visit. We gratefully accepted some of the 
lovely microphylle roses blooming on the lawn, some sprigs 
of arbor-vitae, and a horse chestnut fallen from the very tree 
of which we had read the day before, in a diary written by 
Miss Polly — a young lady visitor in this neighborhood who 
had dined here in the middle of the eighteenth century. 

We could fancy her in her favorite company dress that she 
mentioned as her most becoming attire, namely a pink satin 
redingote and leghorn hat trimmed with white plumes, sitting, 
after dinner, as she had described herself, under this mag- 
nificent tree, the centre of a group of merry hearted young 
folks — now somebody's venerated ancestors! 

This reminds us that nobody should leave Stratford with- 
out visiting its vault, where slumber many worthies. 

These old-time Virginians cling closely to the customs of 
their English ancestry, and family vatdts were long the usual 
places of interment for the well-born planter. 

Nobody more than the Lees had a right to regard the tra- 
ditions of the past, since their genealogy could be clearly 
traced back to a certain Launcelot, who followed William the 
Conqueror from fair France to England. Then, again, we 
heard of Lionel Lee, a brave crusader, who fought by the side 
of Richard Coeur de Lion, in Palestine, and, as a reward for 
his valor, was made first Earl of Litchfield upon his return. 

The gallantry of a later race of Lees is vouched for by the 
fact that, in token of their transcendent achievements, the King 
caused their banners to be suspended in St. George's Chapel, 
Windsor, emblazoned with their coat of arms, and inscribed 
with their motto, "Non incautus futuri." 

Richard Lee was the first of the family to settle in Vir- 
ginia, and came over in the time of Charles the First and from 
the very beginning his career in this country was marked by a 
virtue and patriotism that may be said to be characteristic of 
the Lees. 

The following inscription, copied from his tomb-stone in 

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an old church yaxd in Cople parish, Westmoreland, proves 
this assertion more incontestably than could any record of 
merely worldly greatness: 

"Here lieth the body of Richard Lee, Esquire, born in 
Virginia, son of Richard Lee, Gentleman, descended from an 
ancient family of Merton Regis, in Shropshire. While he 
exercised the office of a magistrate, he was a zealous promoter 
of the public good. He was very skillful in the Greek and 
Latin languages and other parts of polite learning. He quietly 
resigned his soul to God, whom he always devoutly wor- 
shipped, on the twelfth day of March in the year 171 4, in the 
sixty-eighth year of his age." 

Below this is written : 

"Near by is interred the body of Lettuce, his faithful wife, 
daughter of Henry Corbyen, Esquire, Gentleman. A most 
affectionate mother, she was also distinguished by piety toward 
God, charity to the poor, and kindness to all. She died on the 
sixth day of October, 1706, in the forty-ninth year of her age." 

The vault at Stratford is only a short distance to the rear 
of the house, below the garden, and is much larger than these 
depositories of the dead are usually found. It is divided into 
several chambers or alcoves, to provide for different branches 
of the family, and is entered from above, through a trap-door. 
It is floored over and covered by a substantial brick building. 
Among other tomb-stones lining the wall is one dedicated to 
the Hon. Thomas Lee, the first native born American who was 
ever made governor of Virginia, under British rule. 

His body, however, it seems, was buried at Pope's Creek 
Church in 1756, five miles above his county-seat, Stratford 
Hall. At this church the Washington and Lee families used 
to worship, and here George Washington was baptised, but 
alas! there is hardly a stone standing now, to remind us of 
its existence. 

From the mansion we proceed to the Potomac, and as 
the stranger stands upon the verge of the tall precipitous cliff, 
full a hundred feet high, that here skirts the river, an awe 
steals over one, becoming a pilgrim to the shrine of departed 
greatness. For could one forget whose feet had been once 
wont to tread familiarly every inch of this ground? And yet 
the huge piles of splendid lumber lining the shore, just ready 

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to be launched upon tremendous rafts waiting below, say 
cheerily that the energies and activities of the present are not 
at all held in check by nearness to the haunts of the sacred 

Upon the bank, below the cliff, is a boat-house, and small 
pier, where a skiff and boatman can be procured for sailing 
across the three miles intervening between the Lee and Wash- 
ington estates, but alas ! the clouds that have been threatening 
all day begin to pour down rain, and we reluctantly resign the 
hope of seeing Washington's birthplace. Although assured 
again and again that only the stack of a chimney remains to 
mark the spot where stood the old homestead, and that the 
slab laid down by the reverently patriotic Mr. Custis lies in an 
open scrubby field, and is really not worth a visit, under such 
difficulties, with a heavy sigh, and, only half convinced, we 
defer to another time the long cherished hope of standing upon 
the very spot where Washington was bom. 

It is hard to refrain from moralizing upon the singular 
coincidence which caused two such men to spring not only from 
the same state, the same county, but the same parish and 
neighborhood. But we spare our readers, and merely mention 
the fact, as suggestive of thought and reflection. 


From the German of F. Ruckert 

Chidher the ever young thus spoke : 
I journeyed past a city gate 
A gardener from his fruit trees broke 
Rich clusters for the market great. 
"How long hath this fair city stood?" 
"This city hath stood here of yore. 
And shall stand here forevermore." 

Thither again my pathway led 

When full five hundred years had sped. 

I found no trace of town or throng, 
A lonely shepherd piped his song, 
And fed his flock in pastures green. 

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I asked "Where has the city gone?" 
He careless answered, then piped on, 
"No spot so rich in herbs is found, 
Forever here my pasture ground." 

Five hundred years, and yet again 
My way led to the self-same plain. 

Where once the rustic clown I met 
Of surging waves I heard the roar, 
A boatman boldly cast his net 
Deep in the main, then dragged ashore. 
"Since when this mighty sea?" I cried. 
He with a mocking laugh, replied: 
"This port is famed both far and near, 
They fish — and fish forever here." 

Five hundred years elapsed once more, 
I wandered to the self-same shore. 

There found I now a wooded space. 

The tenant of the solitude, 

A woodman felling trees apace. 

I questioned him: "How old this wood?" 

Said he: "It hath been here always, 

Here, ever here I've spent my days. 

No mortal may these forests raze." 

When still five hundred years had sped 
Again my pathway hither led. 

A city there I found, and loud 
The market rang with bustling life; 
In vain I spoke, the struggling crowd 
Heard not my words for noise and strife. 
"By whom the city built, and when? 
Wood,' sea, and shepherd, what of them?" 
So went it there in days of yore 
And so shall go f orevermore. 

Five hundred years to come and then 
Perhaps I may go there again. 

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Translated from the German of F. Freiligrath. 

Oh! love, while love you may and can 
Oh ! love, for brief the life of man ! 
The hour will come, the hour will come, 
That finds you weeping at the tomb. 

And cherish in your heart the glow 
Whence loving words and actions flow, 
And to the voice of friendship fond 
Oh! ever lovingly respond. 

And who to you his breast lays bare. 
Oh tenderly his burdens share! 
And make for him each moment glad, 
And make for him no moment sad. 

Your tongue's undue dominion dread. 
An evil word is quickly said! 
"Oh God! it was not evil meant" — 
The other though in sorrow went. 

Oh love, while love you may and can! 
Oh love, for brief the life of man! 
The hour will come, the hour will come. 
That finds you weeping at the tomb ! 

You kneel the lowly mound beside. 
With weeping wet, your eyes you hide — 
(They see no more their friend alas!) 
Amid the long, damp churchyard grass. 

And speak: "One glance of thine I crave. 
Who here am weeping at thy grave! 
Forgive the pain I thoughtless sent. 
Oh God! It was not evil meant." 

But ah! he sees and hears you not. 
Comes not to cheer that lonely spot: 
The mouth that kissed you oft, no more 
Says: "I forgave you long before." 

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Ah! that he did forgive you. Well — 
Yet many bitter, hot tears fell, 
Because of you and your harsh speech, 
Yet peace — His rest no anguish reach ! 


From 'The Women of the Revolution.' 

If Washington were blessed in a mother so fully qualified 
to guide his youthful footsteps into paths of rectitude and 
honor, he was equally so in finding a wife meet for the com- 
panionship of his maturer years. That the beginning of so 
fortunate a union was in accordance with the most approved 
modes of procedure in the school of romance is pleasing enough 
to those who acknowledge the authority of its somewhat anti- 
quated code. In his twenty-seventh year, Washington was 
already Colonel in the English army, and had seen abundance 
of active service in the border warfare with the French and 
their savage allies. In the spring of 1758 the Indians were 
making hostile demonstrations to an alarming extent in many 
unprotected portions of Virginia, and the terrified inhabitants 
appealed urgently to the military for defence. In response to 
this call, large forces of militia gathered together, in addi- 
tion to the regular troops already in the field, preparing for 
an expedition against Fort Duquesne. All of these men were 
in desperate need of clothes, arms, indeed everything that 
constituted the soldier's outfit. Washington, after repeatedly 
soliciting relief for their necessities, but without avail, at last 
received the welcome order from 'Sir John St. Clair, quarter- 
master-general of the forces under the Commander-in-Chief, 
Forbes, to repair to Williamsburg, where the Council was in 
session, and there represent the pressing nature of the case. 
With alacrity the young officer obeyed the order, and set 
forth on horseback from Winchester, attended by Bishop, a 
faithful military valet. As he crossed the Pamunkey in a 
ferry-boat, he fell in company with Mr. Chamberlayne, a 
neighboring planter, who urged him to stop and partake of his 
hospitality; in short, he would take no denial. Washington 
objected much td the delay, but finally yielded, on condition 

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that he might be allowed to depart immediately after dinner. 
Among a large company of guests already assembled in Mr. 
Chamberlayne's parlor, he was introduced to a young widow, 
Mrs. Martha Custis, whose maiden name, Dandridge, proved 
her to belong to a family of distinction. She is represented as 
possessing a fine figure, although rather below medium height, 
dark hazel eyes, chestnut brown hair, a winning countenance, 
and manners at once frank and engaging. There must in- 
deed have been something peculiarly fascinating in the con- 
versation, which could make Washington loiter in the path 
of duty, as was the case at this time. Bishop, punctual as the 
clock, brought out his horses at the hour named, but in dumb 
amazement heard them remanded to the stable. His master 
had allowed himself to be persuaded to tarry awhile longer; 
nor got his own consent to leave his charming new acquaint- 
ance until the following morning. The impression made that 
afternoon was not effaced, for, as Mrs. Custis's residence was 
not far from Williamsburg, the young soldier improved the 
opportunity for prosecuting his courtship, and was success- 
ful, despite the rivalship of many another suitor. Amid the 
pressing and conflicting duties of an ardent campaign, he made 
his way into the fair widow's affections; and before he was 
recalled to headquarters at Winchester, they became engaged, 
and appointed the marriage to take place so soon as Fort 
Duquesne should have fallen. Accordingly, we find that the 
wedding did take place, at the bride's residence. White House, 
New Kent County, January 6th, 1759, where the nuptials were 
solemnized in old Virginia style, amid a large circle of friends, 
and with general merrymaking. 

Washington now resigned all connection with the army, 
supposed his military career had drawn to a close, and, in 
good faith and contentment, proposed to himself hencefor- 
ward to lead the life of a retired country-gentleman. In view 
of the brilliant future that we know was before him, how 
strange seems the following sentence, penned at Mount Ver- 
non a few months after his marriage: "I am now, I believe, 
fixed in this seat, with an agreeable partner for life, and I 
hope to find more happiness in retirement than I ever ex- 
perienced in the wide and bustling world." So little do even 
those who are Heaven's choicest instruments for good to their 


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fellow-men know of the path which is appointed for them to 
follow. The pursuits of agriculture and the pleasures of 
country life never lost their charm for Washington. Again 
and again we see him return to his beloved Mount Vernon, 
ardently longing to remain there; and again and again he is 
called forth to serve his country, a call to which no selfish 
gratification could ever make him deaf. 

Mrs. Washington seems to have been one of those women 
who shine equally in domestic and social circles, so that it is 
hardly matter for surprise if her husband found his home so 
attractive as to have no need for seeking his happiness else- 
where. Doubtless, the secret of her charm lay in her piety, 
which was deep and sincere. In that long struggle which 
lasted with changing success for so many years, and whose 
issue trembled so often in the balance, she showed that equa- 
nimity of spirit and temper which is a very tower of strength to 
its possessor, and a beacon of hope to all who come within 
reach of its blessed influences. In the dark days at Valley 
Forge, not to speak of many another dreary winter, the cheer- 
ing effects of the presence of ladies in camp, more especially 
that of Lady Washington, is spoken of gratefully in many a 
soldier's letter ; and many a page of history, that would have 
been otherwise a dreary record of gloom, hardship, and disas- 
ter, is thus softened and brightened. Nor are we left without 
a description of this lady's mode of dress, which is worthy of 
note, as, doubtless, true daughters of the Republic will wish 
to imitate it. An old soldier tells the story of how there was 
much stir in the barracks, when it was bruited abroad that so 
grand a lady was coming to visit the camp as Lady Washing- 
ton — one of those aristocratic Virginians whose pride was 
even then the subject of comment, and one who, at all events, 
as the wife of their Commander-in-Chief, might be expected 
to appear in elegant attire. Many flocked as near as they 
dared, to see her alight from her coach, and could hardly be- 
lieve at first that the plainly dressed person whom they saw, 
with her only neck-dress a neatly folded kerchief, was the 
expected lady. But they were soon convinced of her identity 
when they observed the manner of General Washington's 
welcome, and saw the deference paid her by all in attendance. 
Simplicity, with neatness, were marked characteristics of Mrs. 

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Washington's attire, qualities which many of her sex in those 
days were not slow to imitate, led by so august an example. 
Since the funds which would ordinarily have gone for the 
adornment of their persons were now, in most instances, 
poured into the common treasury, this moderation on the part 
of the women of the day must have contributed in no small 
degree to the support of the ill-fed, ragged Continental troops, 
in whom, nevertheless, was centred every hope of coming 

Who knows hoiv much of that outward imperturbable se- 
renity for which Washington has been so much admired, result- 
ed from his possessing domestic peace — ^a wife at home in 
whom his heart could safely trust. The genuine hospitality of 
this pair is evinced by the cheerfulness with which it was dis- 
pensed, amid the discomforts and mean accommodations of 
camp-life, as well as when they were at home, surrounded by all 
the accessories of wealth, wherewith to provide comfort and 
good cheer for their visitors. The Marquis de Chastellux 
speaks feelingly of the warm reception he experienced at their 
hands, when the only chamber they had to oflFer him at night 
was a small room, which during the day served quite a large 
company as a sitting-room. The trouble and inconvenience to 
which General and Mrs. Washington put themselves to enter- 
tain him could not fail to call forth the gratitude of this 
impressible young Frenchman, and made him apprehensive, he 
says, lest M. Rochambeau might arrive the same day. He well 
knew that the expansiveness of their benevolence would not 
allow them to consider their own ease, where the accommoda- 
tion of a guest was concerned. 

An old veteran, many years afterwards, related an anec- 
dote illustrative of Mrs. Washington's condescending kindness 
towards those in the humblest walks of life. He told how 
himself and several other young carpenters had been called 
upon by General Washington to make a buffet, to put up 
shelves, and some other little contrivances for the comfort of 
his wife, who was daily expected at headquarters. The lady 
arrived before the arrangements were complete, and hastened 
to impart her own instructions. While busied in her service, 
she so encouraged the workmen by her amiable manners, and 
by herself daily mounting the stairs with some refreshment for 

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them, that they worked with a will, and all their life long 
treasured her parting words of approval, as something be- 
yond price. When they called her to inspect the completed 
task, their spokesman said, "Madam, we have endeavored to 
do the best we could; I hope we have suited you." She re- 
plied, smiling: "I am not only satisfied, but highly gratified 
with what you have done for my comfort." Simple words 
truly ; but were the poor men wrong to prize them, coming as 
they did from such a source? 

In the darkest hours of the war Mrs. Washington's cheer- 
ful deportment and her patient endurance of hardship made 
many ashamed to complain of their own trials, who v/ould 
otherwise have used no such self-restraint; and when pros- 
perity came, that severest of tests, it was her modest, yet 
noble demeanor, together with that of her husband, which lent 
dignity to a new and untried form of government. Their 
stately simplicity of manner taught the world that republican 
institutions did not necessitate the abrogation of convention- 
ality; and their purity and moderation of life proved that 
the noblest patriotism might exist in union with great power, 
provided its seat lay in the hearts of the people ruled. 

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[1850— J 


\1I7ILLIAM BENJAMIN SMITH was bom at Stanford, Ken- 
^^ tucky, October 26, 1850, the youngest child and only son of 
Jeremiah Smith and his wife, Angeline, nee Kenley. His family 
was of those sturdy yeomen pioneers of the valley of the Ohio, whose 
life and work so distinctly made for the development of characters 
of force and chivalry. In 1854 his parents, with their three children, 
moved to Missouri and settled on a farm ten miles south of St. 
Joseph. Here he had, apart from "little Joe,'* his negro body 
servant, almost no companions save the world of nature about him 
and the visionary world of unwearied and unbridled imagination 
within him. From his childhood his thoughts were naturally di- 
rected upward; plain living was the necessary result of circum- 
stances; high thinking was the natural working of a mind gener- 
ously endowed of God, happily directed, and exalted and enriched 
by constant companionship with great thinkers of the past. 

His father, a man of forceful intellect and extensive reading, 
possessed a good library. Therein young William browsed without 
let or hindrance. He would select his own book, a volume of Hume, 
perhaps, or Virgil or Plutarch, and with it hide away under the 
great ancestral bed in his father's chamber, until he had devoured 
and digested and made his own all that his prize had to offer him. 
No one molested or directed his literary activities. Indeed, no one 
was aware that he had any. 

In the same way he had stored away in Lis memory Homer's 
"Ihad" and Anthon's 'Classical Dictionary' — ^the only presents, 
strange to say, that he ever received from his learned father — ^and 
Thucydides, Euripides, Macaulay, and the fragmentary master- 
pieces contained in Goodrich's and McGuffey's fine old readers. Noth- 
ing was too heavy or too abstruse for his eager appetite; such 
things as Cousin's 'Course of Modem Philosophy' and Buck's The- 
ological Dictionary' were read as carefully as the 'Life of Napoleon' 
and Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress' — the type of juvenile books to be 
found on this child's reading list* 

At the age of ten he was sent away to boarding-school — to the 
DeKalb Academy alias and alibi, The Sleepy Hollow Academy — one 

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of those curious, old, migratory preparatory schools, with a faculty 
of one strong man (a Jamaican, Charles Scarlet RafEngton), whose 
work and whose glory it was to make strong men. Never was more 
clearly illustrated the paradox that "teachers are of no help except 
to those who do not need their help." 

His academy school-days fell in the troublous times of the Civil 
War. His father was a Southern sympathizer, who, however, took no 
active part in the conflict ; but in the border States feeling ran high, 
and for his sympathies he was foully assassinated — shot down on the 
public highway by an Iowa soldier, who was afterward killed by an 
Omaha policeman for resisting arrest for some other crime. 

The family fortunes were ruined by the war. The father's death 
left the mother and sisters dependent upon the energies of the thir- 
teen-year-old boy. For three years he worked the farm. His man- 
agement proved so successful that, at the end of that time, he found 
that he had funds enough to warrant resuming his studies, and that 
he could leave the farm to manage itself on the plans that he had 
organized. Accordingly, in the autumn of 1867, he entered the 
Kentucky (now Transylvania) University. His college career was 
characterized by the same thoroughness and independence of self- 
training that had been marked in his preparatory course. He entered 
as a well-prepared sophomore in Latin, English, and mathematics; 
but he knew no Greek. Yet in his second year he was reading with 
ease and appreciation the ma t chlwo oration of Pericles in the sec- 
ond book of Thucydides's p9 f l e «> history. The depths of his soul 
were easily and naturally opened to the influence of Hellenic cul- 
ture; the response was quick and full; and before the end of his 
course he was completely Hellenized. Plato, Sophocles, Demosthenes, 
Euripides, and Homer had become part and parcel of his mental 
fiber. No one masterpiece of literature, he says, made so deep an 
impression upon his modes of thought and feeling as the Agamemnon 
of -^schylus — an impression to which his commencement oration, 
entitled "If a man die, shall he live again?" bore striking and almost 
awful witness. 

Besides establishing a record for general scholarship, he distin- 
guished himself most of all in debate by the extreme vigor of his 
reasoning. "His logic," said a critic, "is a Damascus blade wielded 
in dignity, yet in power." Hence, he received the sobriquet of "Aris- 
totle," which, corrupted into Harry Stoggles by the "town," denotes 
him among his college chums and acquaintances unto this day. 

After graduating as A.B. in 1870 and as A.M. in 1871, he taught 
in the University first as tutor, then as assistant in English and 
sacred history, then as acting professor of natural history until 
1874. In that year occurred the incident laid by his college chum. 

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James Lane Allen, at the basis of his novel. The Reign of Law.' 
David is, in fact, none other than William Benjamin Smith, trans- 
formed but not transfigured. The next two years he spent in teach- 
ing in St. John's College, Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin. Thence he 
went to the University of Goettingen for further study, where he 
captured two prizes in the Mathematico- Physical Seminary, and 
received the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in March, 1879. "His 
examination,'* said Professor Schwartz, one of the ablest living 
mathematicians, "was a delightful conversation, by which I profited 
not less than he." 

Returning to the United States, he taught one year in the Bethel 
Military Academy in Virginia; four years as professor of mathe- 
matics in Central College, Missouri ; eight years in the University of 
Missouri, first as professor of physics, then of mathematics and 
astronomy; thirteen years as professor of mathematics in Tulane 
University of Louisiana, where since 1904 he has occupied the chair 
of philosophy. 

His interests have been many-sided, his versatility exceptional. 
He is master in many lines of thought. He is well versed in the lit- 
eratures of Greece, Rome, Germany, France, Italy, Holland, and 
England, and has a working knowledge of Semitic tongues. He 
stands in the very foremost rank of New Testament critics of our 
day, and is recognized as an authority even more in Germany and 
England than in America. 

With a voice of authority he speaks on questions of economics, 
finance, and sociology. As a public speaker he has delivered ad- 
dresses (most of them published) on "Equality at the Bar of Na- 
ture," "The Greek Genius and What We Owe It," "A Plea for the 
Individual," "The University," "The Origin and Significance of 
Disease," "Race Decay," "The Culture Value of Higher Mathe- 
matics." His "Tariff for Protection" (1888) and "Tariff Reform" 
(1892) are wells of thought from which scholars and statesmen 
alike have drawn copiously. Mr. William C. P. Breckenridge used 
both of them extensively on the floor of Congress. Mr. Logan 
Carlisle in Kentucky and Judge Chester H. Crumm made them the 
basis of many campaign speeches on the tariff issue. "Tariff Re- 
form" was sent in manuscript by a mutual friend to ex-President 
Qeveland, who replied that he had received the manuscript, opened 
it with the expectation of glancing over the first page and throwing 
it aside; but the first page was not enough; he had never laid it 
down until he reached the end. Mr. Cleveland "found it so clear, 
able and convincing" that he had it published by the Democratic 
National Committee and circulated as a campaign document. Equally 
searching and cogent were his discussions of the silver question, es- 

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pecially his refutation of Altgeld, in a series of six articles in the 
Chicago Record (1896), with which he made his first public appear- 
ance in the world of finance. With such mastery did he champion 
the cause of the single gold standard that the executive committee 
of the Gold Democracy invited him to take the stump for their 
party; but academic duties forbade. 

On mathematics, he has published 'Co-ordinate Geometry' (1885), 
'A Clew to Trigonometry' (1893), 'Infinitesimal Analysis' (1895). 
These are all works of scientific rank and worth ; so also is his widely 
read memoir on Twelve vs. Ten/ sketching and strongly advo- 
cating the reformation of our numerical notation and system of 
weights and measures and calendar, on the basis of twelve instead 
of ten as a radius. 

On Sociology, The Color Line' (1906), a work of his ripest and 
best thought, gives an exposition of the tremendous race problem 
that confronts our country — particularly in the South. It is thor- 
ough, scholarly, clear, convincing; no phase of the question is over- 
looked; the work is accomplished without bias; it is free from 
prejudice; the conclusions are reached by calm reasoning based 
upon scientific method and logical procedure; it is generally recog- 
nized, especially by the Northern critics, as the ablest defence yet 
presented of the Southern attitude. 

But this scholar's labor of love has always been the study of the 
Bible, more particularly the New Testament, and of other literature 
bearing on the subject of Christian origin. After a number of ten- 
tative articles in the Non-Sectarian, the New World, the Unitarian 
Review, and the Outlook, he began grave speech in 190 1 in an article 
on the "Address and Destination of St. Paul's Epistle to the Ro- 
mans," published in the Journal of Biblical Literature, wherein he 
showed that Pw/ai; was absent from the earliest text of Rom. i 7, a 
demonstration that secured him immediate European recognition. 
Professor Harnack of Berlin at once wrote of it in the Zeitschrift 
fiir die Neutestamentlische Wissenschaft: "Critics have generally 
remained content with the received text, but Smith is right in de- 
claring it interpolated." Harnack, furthermore, pronounced Smith's 
result especially interesting and significant, as being the first in- 
stance of a manuscript of second rank proved to be correct against 
the united testimony of all witnesses of the first rank. 

This was quickly followed in the same journal by two elaborate 
memoirs entitled "Unto Romans: xv, xvi," in which "text-critical 
artillery is deployed in masterly manner with mathematical proof.'* 
He reviewed the Dutch work, Van Manen's Oudchristlyke Letter- 
kunde, for the first number of the Hibbcrt Journal, and was re- 
quested to write "Did Paul Write Romans?" for the second num- 

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bcr, to which Schmie<Jel of Zurich replied in the third number, 
Smith closing the discussion in the fourth. In the July and October 
numbers (1903) of the American Journal of Theology appeared the 
text-critical study of "The Pauline Manuscripts F and G," in which 
he upheld convincingly (even to his opponents, against nearly the 
whole weight of critical authority in Europe and America) the 
mutual independence of the two manuscripts. He himself regards this 
as his best piece of work, and it would not be easy to name any- 
thing in its class more careful, cogent, or penetrative. Among Ger- 
man scholars it is regarded as a model of method and scholarly 

In 1894 he read at the St. Louis Congress of Arts and Sciences 
a memoir, displaying his keenest powers of investigation and his 
perfect command of material, on the "Meaning of the Epithet *Naza- 
rean'," which he referred to the old Semitic root Na Sa Ra, signi- 
fying to protect In 1906 at the urgence of Professor Pfleiderer of 
Berlin, and with the generous cooperation of other noted German 
scholars, he gave to the world, from the well-known press of A. 
Topelmann, by far his most important volume, the first of a con- 
templated series, entitled Der vorchristliche Jesus nebst weitren Vor- 
studien eur Entstehungsgeschichte des Urchristentums. Mit einem 
Vorwort von Paul Wilhelm Schmiedel. 

This book has been extensively reviewed in English, French, Ger- 
man, Dutch and Italian. The spirit of these reviews is reflected by 
Borinski, when he says of "this daring pathfinder'^: "In this re- 
markable investigator there stirs, in spite of all his radicalism, no 
breath of destructive zeal, but on the contrary he is animated by 
a spirit of thoroughly requickening, constructive criticism,'' 

One contribution only has Dr. Smith made to historical literature. 
In 1891 appeared his biography of "James Sidney Rollins,'' Father of 
the University of Missouri. In this he sketches, with all the ac- 
curacy of the historian and with all the grace of the artist, that great 
leader of men — as a legislator, as a party leader, as a Southern 
champion of the Union's cause, as a patron of education and letters, 
as a man. 

Not often is one so many sided in his attainments, so scholarly 
and thorough in his achievements, so unassailable in his conclusions. 
Whether it be in philosophy or economics, in sociology or mathe- 
matics, in New Testament criticism or literary criticism, his utter- 
ances come with all the weight of a master's authority. Not always 
pedestrian, moreover, is his Muse. Like Empedocles of old, this mod- 
em philosopher is also a poet of no mean rank. One poem of his, en- 
titled "The Merman and the Seraph," printed on page 4981, stood first 
among two hundred in Poet Lore's competition in 1906. Some of his 

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finest work in verse is to be found in his translations — ^such as his 
versions of "Dies Irae/' "Stabat Mater," "Der Gesang der Erzen- 
gel" — which combine in a most imusual degree fidelity to the orig- 
inal with perfection of form in English. 

Indeed, in all that Dr. Smith has written — even in his more 
technical scientific treatises — he shows himself a master of a polished 
albeit vigorous, trenchant style. Literary interest is always subor- 
dinated, to be sure, but no sentence is left without the effects of 
the file and the pumice-stone. But the dominating qualities of his 
literary style will be found to be intense earnestness, forceful imagery, 
fervid eloquence, convincing power. 


From 'jAincs Sidney Rollins.' 

The services of Rollins to the cause of higher education, 
more particularly to the State University, undoubtedly ground 
his chief claim to immortality and uprear the central pillar of 
his fame. Yet his political achievements were very far from 
inconsiderable, though they fell short both of his own just 
deserts and still more of the confident expectations of his 
admirers. Here again the fault lay not so much in the chisel 
as in the marble, which proved refractory in its intimate struc- 
ture and refused to take upon itself the highest polish. It is a 
fact that confronts us at more than one turn of events that 
time and place had conspired against him, and they performed 
their vow. Had the stage of his action been shifted through 
three degrees either in latitude or in longitude, his political 
career would have been far less chequered. Had the meridian 
of his life, which traversed the troublous times of the Kansas 
agitation, been displaced by ten years either backwards or for- 
wards, hi$ political development would have been true to 
itself and his elective affinities would not have been thwarted. 
As It was, he found himself a Whig in the decadence of Whig- 
gery ; a leader of his party when that party had begun to dis- 

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integrate ; a slaveholder, but in heart unalterably opposed to the 
institution of slavery; a conservative when conservatism was 
impossible ; and a preacher of peace when war was inevitable. 
The dissolution of the Whigs left him without any firm par- 
tisan anchorage; at a time when the political elements were 
undergoing rapid polarization and rearrangement, he found 
himself still beneath the strong coercitive magnetism of the 
great Apostle of Compromise, repelled alike by either polar 
extreme and buflfeted by the contrary currents that so often vex 
mid-lying equatorial regions. Nature had formed his mind 
and temper for the "era of good feeling," and then, with that 
bitter irony, in that grim mockery, that she loves, had flung 
him into the maelstrom of sectional strife and partisan hatred. 
It is surely no wonder if the tempest whose first blasts stranded 
far from their haven such heroic crafts as Clay and Webster 
should wreck or engulf at the height of its fury even the stur- 
diest of their epigoni. Rollins himself was wont to find solace 
for the miscarriage of his aspirations in the just observation 
that in minorities, where his lot was so frequently cast, there is 
generally to be found more than a due proportion of virtue 
and wisdom, of patriotism and intelligence. To this we may 
add the further reflection that disappointment is not failure, 
and may really be the guise of some higher and unhoped-for 
success. Had Rollins been a more famous, perhaps he might 
have been a less useful, man; had his career been crowned 
with greater good fortune, perhaps it might have been filled 
with less beneficence. From its highland fastness, from its 
homestead in the hills, its undiscovered sources, the stream 
of his life broke forth with glad and strong and impetuous 
current. Swift and bright, deep-flowing and abundant, it 
rushed onward through half its descent to the main. Then it 
was that the sands, sluggish and heavy, began to choke it and 
drain oflf its brimming wave and dull the mirror of its sur- 
face. Yet through the desolate tract it held on its slow and 
toilsome and sinuous course, and at last, having redeemed and 
blessed with fertility a long wide stretch of the desert, it 
emerged, though with contracted flood, "out of the mist and 
hum of that low land," to hear the waves breaking on the 
destined shore and to mingle its own murmur in the eternal 
anthem of the sea. 

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From The Color Line.* 

And the individual withers. 

And the world is more and more. _ 

— Tennyson, 

. . . The reader may find the foregoing discussion con- 
vincing; we think the unprejudiced reader will almost surely 
find it so, and yet he may not find it satisfactory. For he 
may urge that no solution has been propounded or foreshad- 
owed for the problem, and that it is by no means enough merely 
to know what the problem is — its dangers, its difficulties, and 
its terrible threat. This objection is perfectly just. Up to this 
moment our sole concern has been to establish unshakably 
firm the central position, of the supreme and all-overshadow- 
ing importance of preserving the American-Caucasian blood 
pure and untainted and dedicated to the development of the 
highest humanity. But this accomplished, we have no dispo- 
sition to shirk another task, to avoid another question, how- 
ever delicate, disagreeable, or depressing. This question is: 
What has the future in store for the Negro? If social equality 
must be resolutely denied him forever, if he is to be treated 
as an outcast and a pariah because of his race and the w^eight 
of inheritance which he can never shake off from his shoulders, 
what hope remains? Where are the blessings of freedom? Is, 
then, emancipation but an apple of Sodom, turning to ashes 
on his lips? These are fearful questions, but we must not 
quail before them ; we must confront them firmly, calmly, with 
eyes wide open to all the facts in the case, and with ears un- 
closed to all the teachings of history. 

In the light of the foregoing, it is vain to appeal to 
Education. We know that many noble and excellent spirits 
expect wonders from this potent agency. As an educator our- 
self, we can have no interest or motive in unduly distrusting 
or minimizing its capabilities. The work that education may 
accomplish is undoubtedly great; and in spite of many dis- 
couraging disappointments the task of educating the Negro 
will assuredly be bravely performed, in larger and larger 
measure, for all generations to come. 

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But it is a colossal error to suppose that race improvement, 
in the strictest sense of the term, can be wrought by education. 
The reason is simple and easily understood : Race-improvement 
is organic; education is extra-organic. Any change or ameli- 
oration that affects the race, the stock, the blood, must be in- 
herited ; but education is not inherited, it is not inheritable. It 
must be renewed generation after generation in each individ- 
ual. The Sisyphus-stone of culture is rolled with infinite toil 
up the steep ascent by the fathers ; it thunders instantly back, 
and must be rolled up again with equal agony and bloody 
sweat by their children. All must start at the same centre of 
ignorance, and beat out a long and arduous path to the ever- 
widening circumference of the furthest knowledge. The son 
of the learned and the son of the unlearned have equal chance 
side by side in the race for learning. If the children of the 
cultured acquire more readily than their fellows, it is not 
because they have inherited parental culture, but only the 
parental capacity for culture; not because their parents knew 
more, but because they had more inborn power to know. Had 
circumstances doomed the savant to ignorance, his children 
would not have suffered in their ability to learn. Nay more, 
if devotion to intellectual pursuits has any influence at all on 
the native quality of offspring, as it may possibly have in ex- 
treme cases, it would seem to be more probably hurtful than 
helpful; for, by impairing nutrition of the germinal cells, 
excessive intellectual activity may induce impotence and ster- 
ility; and the fecundity of the very highly cultured seems to 
have suffered measurably in Europe, if not in the United States. 

These propositions lie beyond possible contradiction. We 
need not raise the question of the general Weismannian theory 
of heredity ; but we must recognize, as wholly undeniable, that 
the characters and qualities acquired by education are not in 
any degree inherited. The testimony of every-day observation 
is, on this point, so unanimous and so overwhelming that fur- 
ther insistence would seem superfluous. We may refer, how- 
ever, to the broad, patent, universally recognized fact that cen- 
turies of culture and most careful training have never been 
known to improve the breed, the stock, the inherent quality of 
any race of men or plants or domestic animals. Wherever any 
of these have been organically modified, it has been by other 

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agencies, more especially by some form of natural or artificial 
selection. While the extra-organic development of civiliza- 
tion has gone on and still goes on, and apparently will go on 
apace indefinitely, under the guidance of science and invention, 
there is no evidence of any organic improvement in man in 
thousands of years, since the working of natural selection 
ceased to be progressive. The Mesopotamian of to-day is 
surely not the superior of his sculptured ancestors, who ob- 
served and measured the procession of the equinoxes nearly 
6,000 years ago. The Jew of to-day can boast nothing above 
the authors of the Psalms, and of Job, and of the prophecies 
of Isaiah. The modern Greek may or may not have descended 
from Homer or Pericles ; but, surely, he has not ascended very 
far. It is needless to multiply illustrations. We believe 
firmly in the mutability of species ; but the phenomenon of the 
permanence, even of sub-species and varieties, is far more 
universal and impressive. 

Education, then, can do much; but its mission is to the 
present — it cannot stamp itself upon the future. The limits 
of its efficiency, though absolutely wide, are relatively nar- 
row and are speedily reached. With man it discharges the 
function of care and training, of cultivation and domestication, 
with the lower animals and with the products of the soil. By 
diligent tillage, by the spade, the hoe, the plough, by irriga- 
tion and fertilization, the planter may greatly increase the 
yield of his field or his orchard and even refine, in a measure, 
the quality of his fruit or his grain. By feeding, grooming, 
and the like, the horse-dealer may much improve the appear- 
ance and serviceability of his horses and may even add no 
little to their health, vigor, and value. It would be insanity 
in these men to neglect or despise such artificial helps and to 
trust their crops and their stock to grow and to take care of 
themselves. The farmer and the stockman know very well 
that only by the highest cultivation and the most watchful at- 
tention can they secure the best results in field or fold and 
maintain themselves in competition with wide-awake neighbors. 

But they also know, not less certainly, that the maximal 
results of such instrumentalities are not far away but are 
hemmed within a contracted circle. Care and culture soon do 
their best and attain at least practically their ne plus ultra. 

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For any progressive improvement, whether in animal or in 
plant, the agriculturist knows that he must look to the seed. 
This he must select with the utmost skill and caution — if he 
would maintain the level of excellence already reached, if he 
would not have the "stock" lapse back to an ancient inferior 

All this doctrine, which every one admits so instantly and 
unhesitatingly in its application to wheat, corn, and cotton; 
potatoes, apples, and oranges; grapes and melons; sheep, cat- 
tle, swine, and horses; bees, birds, and fishes — ^all holds with 
full force and with inconceivable significance when applied to 
men. Education is of exceeding importance. People that 
neglect it thereby doom themselves to hopeless subordination ; 
they drop out of the race for the prizes of life ; they surren- 
der unconditionally to their rivals and commercial foes. Train- 
ing and culture of the highest type are necessary to secure 
the realization of potentialities, to make the very best of the 
material offered at hand; necessary, not only now and here, 
but everywhere and all the time. Any neglect or indifTerence 
at this point must prove fatal. The husbandman dares not 
deprive his corn of a single "ploughing," nor leave his herd 
one night unprotected from the wolf and the cold. 

But it is the sheerest folly to expect of education the im- 
possible — ^to dream that it can aflfect the blood, or transmute 
racial qualities, or smooth down the inequalities between in- 
dividuals of the same breed, much less between the breeds 
themselves. Why, if education could lift the Negro to the 
Caucasian level, to what, pray, in the meantime, would it lift 
the Caucasian himself? We repeat, and the repetition can- 
not be made too emphatic, there is no hope whatever of any 
organic improvement, of any race betterment of the Negro, 
from any or from all extra-organic agencies of education or 
religion or civilization. Let us, then, educate the Negro, to 
make him a more useful and productive, a law-abiding and 
happier, member of the community; but let us not hope too 
much from this education, if we would not be bitterly disap- 
pointed. . . . 

But our sympathy with such rational and well-directed 
efforts must not blind us to near-lying limitations, which no 
might of man can possibly remove. Let it be said, then, bold- 

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ly that the Negro will not enter generally or in great numbers 
into the field of skilled labor — neither in the North nor in the 
South. It is, of course, not unattended with danger to venture 
into the realm of prophecy, but in this case the bases of pre- 
diction seem particularly broad and solid. We all know that 
skilled labor is daily growing more and more thoroughly or- 
ganized. Rightly or wrongly, for weal or for woe, it regards 
capital, especially combined and organized capital, if not as its 
enemy, at least as its exploiter, prepared at every instant to 
make the very most of it — ^to assail it at any and every ex- 
posed point, to throttle it by any and every means, and to 
reduce it to serfdom. As over against the might of accumu- 
lated millions, the laborer cannot fail to perceive his utter 
impotence — he is not even a drop in a bucket. It is only in 
great numbers, in compact and readily wielded organizations, 
that the individual workman can count for anything whatever 
— can find any hope of escape from the veriest servitude. It is 
idle to suppose that, for many years to come, capital will not 
continue to mass itself into formidable aggregations, or that 
labor will cease to array itself in firmer and firmer unions and 
associations for self -protection and for maintenance or eleva- 
tion of the standard of life, the minimum of subsistence. 

Now, to such federations of labor, to such combinations for 
the commonweal, involving, as they often do, the most deter- 
mined self-renunciation, the most heroic self-sacrifice, even the 
Caucasian is by no means full-grown, and the Negroid is alto- 
gether unequal. There is not the slightest probability that the 
great labor organizations would, in general, think of admit- 
ting to their membership an element of such notable weakness 
as the Negro would certainly be. Such would be the case, 
even if other considerations were absent. But they are pres- 
ent. As inferiors, accustomed to a lower standard of life and 
more pliant to the demands of employers, the Negroes would 
present the same problem and the same menace as the Chinese 
- -only in a more aggravated form. In their admission in 
large numbers to the ranks of skilled labor, this latter could 
not fail to see a terrible and instant threat of reduced wages, 
of lowered life, of baser thraldom. Race prejudice, if yo« 
call it so, would blaze out immediately, and with irresistible 
violence. It makes not the slightest difference whether labor 

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would be right or wrong, justified or unjustified ; it would be 
the instinct of self-preservation fanned suddenly into vehement 
flame, and nothing could withstand it. As an example in point, 
take the violent opposition offered a few years ago by the mi- 
ners of Illinois to the importation of Negro laborers; take the 
recent practically total expulsion of Negroes, many of them 
peaceable and unoffending, from various towns, districts, and 
counties in Pennsylvania, Indiana, Missouri, Kansas, Illinois, 
and elsewhere. Consider all this as unreasonable, as outrageous 
— ^it matters not; it shows the temper of the American-Cau- 
casian laborer, which will hardly tolerate the competition of 
his equals, and certainly not of any form of labor lower than 
his own. And in defense of what he regards as the most im- 
portant and most sacred of all his rights, he will not hesitate 
for an instant at the adoption of means. 

Accordingly, we may confidently affirm that the experi- 
ment of Mr. Washington and his Northern multi-millionaire 
admirers, to solve the race problem by making of the Negro 
a skilled laborer, may indeed be magnificent, but, in any large 
measure, it cannot succeed. If at any time it seemed to prom- 
ise any very wide success, it would rouse a race animosity, 
North and South, the like of which we have not yet beheld. 

What fields of employment, then, remain open to the 
Negroid ? We answer : Those he has thus far occupied, where 
there is no great organized competition of the Whites. The 
plantation and the countless forms of personal and occasional 
service are undoubtedly the regions where his abilities may be 
most naturally and most profitably employed. There, too, his 
better qualities, his endowments both of mind and body, find 
fullest and most useful play. Small farming and retail deal- 
ing he may also ply successfully ; he may teach his kind, he may 
preach and plead and prescribe and publish for them. Su- 
perior artisans will show themselves here and there, and oc- 
casionally abilities of still higher order will crop out, es- 
pecially among Mulattoes. If they will, these can find ample 
scope for their powers within the ranks of their own people. 
Spar tarn tuam exorna will, in all such cases, be the counsel of 
friendly wisdom. Vain and foolish for even the superior 
Negroid to try to take the kingdom of heaven by force, to 
conquer a position among the Whites commensurate with his 

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abilities as a Black. Better a big frog in a small puddle than 
a small frog in a big puddle. In general, whatever tends 
toward the sharp demarcation of the two races, towards the 
accurate delimitation of their spheres of activity and influence, 
will imquestionably make for peace, for prosperity, for mu- 
tual understanding, and for general contentment. On the 
other hand, every attempt to blur these boundaries, to wipe 
out natural distinctions, to mix immiscibles, must always issue 
in confusion, discord, failure, reciprocal injury and final ruin. 

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 4c ♦ 

If then the A fro- American race stands even now at the 
entrance of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, what shall we 
say, what shall we do? Shall we weep and wail and gnash our 
teeth? Shall we lift up the trump of indignation against such 
red-handed iniquity? Shall we cry out to heaven and to 
Congress against the crime of the centuries? We think that 
a much calmer and milder mood may well become us before 
such a thanatopsis. Why should the spectacle of a racial 
diminuendo so arouse or revolt us? Surely it is something 
neither unique nor uncommon. All that breathe will share 
their destiny. It is appointed unto men once to die. If *^ 
were the highest form of human life, we might be concerned 
or even confounded. But such it is not ; on the contrary, it is 
one of the very lowest, that has hitherto enacted and proitiises 
hereafter to enact only unhistorical history. "The old order 
changeth, yielding place to new." The recession, the evan- 
escence, of the Negro before the Caucasian is only one ex- 
ample among millions of the process of nature. The mystery 
of death is not maleficent ; says the Cabbala, "The Lord said 
unto the Angel of Death, Behold I have made thee cosmocra- 
tor." In the upward mounting of the forms of life, there are 
no other stepping-stones than their own dead selves. The 
vision, then, of a race vanishing before its superior is not at 
all dispiriting, but inspiring rather. It is but a part of ^"^ 
increasing purpose of the ages, a forward creeping of ^^^ 
eternal dawn. 

The doom that awaits the Negro has been prepared in '"^^ 
measure for all inferior races. Except where they are ^u^' 
warked by the climate, they must be drowned by the mountmS 
wave of their superior rivals. To the clear, cold eye oi 

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science, the plight of these backward peoples appears practi- 
cally hopeless. They have neither part nor parcel in the future 
history of man; they are rejected as dross from its thrice- 
heated furnace. 

This may sound harsh and unfeeling, but in reality it is 
not so. We do not mean that the inferior should be treated 
unjustly, unkindly, inhumanly. Far from it. Let equity be 
dealt with an even hand. We have never given either voice or 
vote for any form of injustice, however specious, or plausible, 
or grandfatherly. The processes we have in view lie deeper 
than any legislation; they are inwoven in the living garment 
of the Godhead. 

But may we not check or arrest them ? May not the strong 
Caucasian lend a helping hand to his weaker African brother 
and lift him up, and the two walk along hand in hand through 
the centuries? This is a very idyllic picture. "Behold, how 
good and how pleasant for brethren to dwell together in 
unity!" But a moment's reflection must show how inade- 
quate and unreal this dew of Hermon. It is not hard for 
altruism to run suicidally mad, if oneMets go the check-rein 
of egoism. The first and highest and unescapable duty of 
a race is to its self — ^to realize its own personality, to put 
forth all its powers and potencies, to unfold the full flower of 
its own being. It must be neither unjust nor ungenerous in its 
treatment of others, but neither must it attempt self-immo- 
lation — especially, as that sacrifice would be idle and unan- 
swered. The most, the best that one race can eflFect for an- 
other is merely some extra-organic amelioration of condition. 
The organic destiny of that other, written in bone and blood 
and cell and plasma, lies beyond the reach of the helping hand. 
We must dismiss, then, this vision of a higher race stooping 
down with arms of love and lifting up the lower to its alti- 
tude, as merely a pious imagination. The higher race may 
indeed stoop down; it has often done so; but never to rise 
again; instantly there falls upon it the Davidic curse: "Bow 
down their back alway." 

The fate that awaits the backward race in the presence of 
the advanced should appear more vividly, one would think, 
to no other eyes than to those of New England. "Across the 
ocean came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and of 

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death. The former were sown for you ; the latter sprang up in 
the path of the simple native.*' Nor in this process of exter- 
mination, in these "centuries of dishonor," has it really been 
a question of fairness or unfairness, of righteousness or un- 
righteousness. No kind or degree of gentleness or justice 
could have long delayed the departure of the Indian. When 
North-Europeans landed on his shores, for him the clock of 
destiny had struck. While we may properly applaud or con- 
demn individual and communal acts by standards of individual 
or communal ethics, it is not possible to judge the race by 
any such feeble sense. Nature is neither moral nor immoral, 
but supermoral. Her aeonian processes are not to be measured 
by our rules nor defined by our categories ; they tower above 
good and bad; they reach beyond right and wrong. Should 
Roman legions have conquered Greece and girdled the Medit- 
erranean with her civilization? Ought Babylonian empire 
to have lifted up its lion wings over Western Asia? We per- 
ceive at once the emptiness of such questions. 

But even if it were possible for us to turn back the tide of 
time, to stay or slacken the rolling of the wheel of birth, would 
it be well or wise to do so ? We venture to question it most 
seriously. There is a personal and even a social morality that 
may easily become racially immoral. There are diseases whose 
evolutionary function it is to weed out the weak and so pre- 
serve the future for the strong. The sufferers cannot be 
treated with too careful attention, too loving gentleness, too 
tender sympathy. It is the glory of our humanity to cherish 
these frail flowers, to water them with dew, to shield them 
from the sun, and not to suffer even the winds of summer to 
visit them too roughly. But not to gather from them the 
seed for generations to come ! Let theirs be the present, but 
not the future. He who should discover some serum and 
apply it greatly to prolong their lives and give them equal 
chance with the vigorous in the matter of offspring, whatever 
thanks he might win from individuals or the community, 
would deserve and receive the execration of his race as its 
deadliest and most insidious foe. So, too, we hold it to be 
certain that all forms of humanitarianism that tend to give 
the organically inferior an equal chance with the superior in 
the propagation of the species, are radically mistaken; to the 

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individual and to society they would sacrifice the race. Their 
error may be very amiable, but it is none the less mortal. 
The hope of humanity lies not in strengthening the weak, but 
in perfecting the strong. 

Herewith, then, we close this discussion. The mistake 
of our opponents is here exposed in its deepest root, its in- 
most core. It is seen to be a mistake in philosophy, in cos- 
mology, in the scientific interpretation of the process of na- 
ture. But what a weird light is now cast upon the War be- 
tween the States, its cause, and its ultimate result ! Aside from 
questions of political theory, the North sought to free the 
Negro, the South to hold him in bondage. As a slave he had 
led a protected, indeed a hothouse, existence and had flour- 
ished marvelously. His high-hearted champions shed tor- 
rents of blood and treasure to shatter the walls of his prison- 
house, to dispel the pent-up, stifling gloom of his dungeon, and 
to pour in upon him the free air and light of heaven. But the 
sun of liberty is no sooner arisen with burning breath than, 
lo! smitten by the breeze and the beam, he withers and dies! 


Crowned in the Poet Lore Competition, 1906, and used here by permission. 

Deep the sunless seas amid. 

Far from Man, from Angel hid, 

Where the soundless tides are rolled 

Over Ocean's treasure-hold, 

With dragon eye and heart of stone, 

The ancient Merman mused alone. 


And aye his arrowed Thought he wings 
Straight at the inmost core of things — 
As mirrored in his magic glass 
The lightning- footed Ages pass — 
And knows nor joy nor Earth's distress, 
But broods on Everlastingness. 

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"Thoughts that love not, thoughts that hate not, 
Thoughts that Age and Change await not, 

All unfeeling. 

All revealing, 
Scorning height's and depth's concealing. 
These be mine — ^and these alone !" — 
Saith the Merman's heart of stone. 


Flashed a radiance far and nigh 
As from the vortex of the sky — 
Lo! a maiden beauty-bright 
And mantled with mysterious might 
Of every power, below, above. 
That weaves resistless spell of Love. 


Through the weltering waters cold 
Shot the sheen of silken gold; 
Quick the frozen heart below 
Kindled in the amber glow ; 
Trembling heavenward Nekkan yearned. 
Rose to where the Glory burned. 

. "Deeper, bluer than the skies are, 
Dreaming meres of mom thine eyes are; 

All that brightens 

Smile or heightens 
Charm is thine, all life enlightens, 
Thou art all the soul's desire" — 
Sang the Merman's heart of fire. 

"Woe thee, Nekkan! Ne'er was given 
Thee to walk the ways of Heaven; 

Vain the vision. 

Fate's derision, 
Thee that raps to realms elysian, 
Fathomless profounds are thine" — 
Quired the answering voice divine. 

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Came an echo from the West, 
Pierced the deep celestial breast; 
Summoned, far the Seraph fled, 
Trailing splendours overhead; 
Broad beneath her flying feet, 
Laughed the silvered ocean-street. 


On the Merman's mortal sight 

Instant fell the pall of Night; 
Sunk to the sea's profoundest floor 
He dreams the vanished vision o'er. 

Hears anew the starry chime, 

Ponders aye Eternal Time. 

"Thoughts that hope not, thoughts that fear not, 
Thoughts that Man and Demon veer not, 

Times unending 

Space and worlds of worlds transcending, 
These are mine — ^but these alone!" — 
Sighs the Merman's heart of stone. 

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TN versatility of genius, varied and successful achievement, often 
-■-in the face of apparently insurmountable obstacles, and in a broad 
and untrammeled grasp of public affairs, William Russell Smith 
takes easy rank among the first of distinguished Alabamians, Jour- 
nalist, author, lawyer, and political leader, he was eminent in every 
field of endeavor in which he entered. 

He was bom in Russellville, Kentucky, March 27, 181 5, the son 
of Ezekiel Smith, a prosperous pioneer and planter of Kentucky, 
and Elizabeth Hampton, who were married at Bowling Green, Ken- 
tucky, August 8, 1806, both being descended from old colonial fam- 
ilies who, having their American origin in Virginia, had migrated 
to Kentucky. The boy was named for Colonel William Russell, of 
Virginia, a kinsman, from whom the town of Russellville, Ken- 
tucky, took its name. 

After the death of her husband, the widow gathered the rem- 
nants of the patrimony and her slaves, and upon the advice of 
friends and relatives, and in their company, moved to Huntsville, 
in what was then the Territory of Alabama, with her six children, 
Sidney, the eldest; Louisa, Glovina, and Adeline, William, the fifth, 
and Joseph, an infant who died at Huntsville. There she built a 
stone house, near the great spring, which was still standing when 
the Civil War came on. 

After a sojourn of a year or two in Huntsville, the mother, for 
what reason is not known, but possibly on account of the dwindling 
family fortune, sold the house at Huntsville, and removed to Tusca- 
loosa. Here, in the autumn of 1823, during an epidemic, she died 
of a fever, leaving her five orphans (Sidney, aged sixteen, being the 
eldest) to face the battle of life far from relatives or old friends. 
She was buried in the graveyard in Tuscaloosa, near the spot where 
her distinguished son now lies. 

The death of the mother wrought a great change in the con- 
dition of the children. A family named Potts — Mrs. Potts having 
nursed Mrs. Smith in her last illness — ^took charge of the children 
and of their little remaining property. The slaves ran away, the 
property was speedily dissipated, and the children were temporarily 

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scattered among the neighbors, William remaining with the Potts 
family. Here, his little property being gone, he was mistreated by 
Mrs. Potts, deprived of his linen clothing, for which gingham and 
homespun were substituted, compelled to wait for his meals until 
the family had finished, and otherwise made to feel his dependent 
condition. He received severe whippings for trifling childish faults 
— perhaps the first and only blows he ever had felt The culmination 
came when one night he crept out of his attic window and down 
the sloping roof to the ground, and ran away. After wandering 
about for two or three days, he was restored to his brother. 

About this time a cousin came from Kentucky and endeavored to 
persuade the children to return to the home of their birth; but Sid- 
ney, who had then obtained employment, opposed this. Shortly 
afterward his sister, Louisa, married William A. McDaniel, a tailor, 
in whose shop the boy was employed. It was not long, however, be- 
fore it was discovered that the little orphan was an embryo genias 
and kind friends of whom he always spoke with affection came 
forward to assist him, the most generoHs being General George W. 
Crabb (to whose memory and achievements Judge Smith paid 
tribute in his 'Reminiscences,') who advanced the money for his edu- 
cation, which his future law student afterward repaid him. 

In 1826 or 1827 he entered the school taught by Dr. Reuben 
Searcy, later one of the most distinguished physicians of West 
Alabama, and, in 1829, the school of the Rev. Nathaniel H. Harris, 
M.A., where he spent two years in preparing for college. The six- 
teen-year-old boy entered the University of Alabama on the opening 
day in the spring of 1831. Ambitious and diligent, young Sniit^» 
ably taught by earnest teachers, and emulating his brilliant felloe 
students, attained a high standard of scholarship in a thorough 
course of English, French, classical and scientific studies. Withai 
he assiduously cultivated the muses, as is attested by the publi- 
cation of his first book while he was yet a student at the Uni- 
versity. This little book of 112 pages, containing sixteen poems, 
unique in being, probably, the first literary production as such puh" 
lished in Alabama, is entitled 'College Musings, or Twigs i^^ 
Parnassus,' printed by D. Woodruff at Tuscaloosa, in 1833. It ^'^^ 
followed shortly afterward by The Bridal Eve,' an Indian romance 
in verse. 

Early in 1834, within a few months of graduation, young Smith 
was compelled, from the necessity of earning a livelihood, to le^^^ 
the University. He entered the law office of General Crabb, his 
friend and patron, and so diligently did he pursue his studies that 
at the end of one year he passed the necessary examination and ^^^ 

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admitted to the Bar. He began practice at Greensboro in 1835, at 
the age of twenty. 

He was short of stature — about five feet, five inches in height — 
but with a sturdy, well-knit frame, capable of great and prolonged 
endurance, both physical and mental. He had dark brown hair, 
large eyes of the same color, and a large, expressive mouth, indica- 
tive of an afiFectionate and generous nature, and at the same time 
of unbending determination. 

In 1836 his elder brother, Sidney, joining one of the Alabama 
companies, which were raised for that purpose, went to Texas to 
aid the fight for Texan independence, and there he was killed in 
the Goliad massacre of March 27, 1836 — this being William's twenty- 
first birthday. In the mean time hostilities had broken out with 
the Creek Nation, and the young lawyer, fired with the military 
spirit inherited from his soldier ancestors of two wars, and nur- 
tured by his mother's teachings, raised a company of mounted in- 
fantry, of which he was elected captain, and proceeded, in the regi- 
ment commanded by Colonel Joseph P. Frazier, to the seat of war. 
But, the Indian War having been just brought to an end, his com- 
pany was disbanded and he returned home. There he met the news 
of his brother's death and of the destruction of the whole of Fannin's 
command by the treachery of Santa Anna; and he immediately set 
out, visiting several counties, and addressing audiences wherever he 
could find them, in an endeavor to raise a force to rally to the sup- 
port of the Texans and to avenge the blood of the American pa- 
triots who had been so foully slaughtered at Goliad. The desire 4o 
avenge the untimely death of his brother, who had been father 
and mother to the orphan boy, who shared with him the inheritance 
of a brilliant mind, and for whom he entertained a passionate 
affection, must have dominated all other motives for this intended 
incursion into military fields. The company that he recruited 
went as far as Mobile, where the news of the battle of San Jacinto, 
and the subsequent success of the Texans, caused 4t to disband. 

Instead of returning home, young Smith remained in Mobile and 
for a year devoted himself to literature, soon establishing a maga- 
zine. This magazine was The Bachelor^s Button, a monthly periodi- 
cal, purely literary in its character, the first number of which was 
published at Mobile in December, 1836. It had the distinction of 
being the first periodical of the kind ever published in Alabama. The 
first four numbers were published in Mobile, but in 1837 Judge Smith 
returned to Tuscaloosa where the fifth and sixth — ^the latter the last — 
numbers were published. This magazine of 1836-1837, to which 
young Smith was a large contributor, as well as its editor, might well 
hold a prominent place in our Twentieth Century publications. In 

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the fifth number appears a poem by the editor, entitled "Young 
Allan Glenn." It is a romance of seven or eight hundred lines, with 
occasional flashes of the sparkling little similes for which he after- 
ward became famous. The tragedy of "Aaron Burr,'* mentioned 
by Brewer and Sol. Smith, has been totally lost, save for a few 
fragments in manuscript found among the author's papers. 

In Tuscaloosa he resumed the practice of law, with which, in 
1838 he combined the editorship of The Monitor, a Whig newspaper. 
In 1839 he was elected Mayor of Tuscaloosa. 

In 1840 he supported General William Henry Harrison for Pres- 
ident, and in 1841, and again in 1842, he was elected as a Whig to 
the General Assembly of Alabama, which met in Tuscaloosa, then the 
capital. But in 1843 he severed his connection with the Whig party, 
expressing in an address issued to his constituents, his opposition 
to Henry Clay's views on the tariff and on other questions. Thence- 
forward he was independent in politics. During these years Mr. 
Smith was a regular and frequent contributor to The Southron, a 
magazine published in Tuscaloosa. 

In 1841 he published ^Alabama Justice.' This was a book very 
useful to magistrates, and passed three editions. 

Early in 1843 William R. Smith married Jane Binion, daughter 
of John H. Binion and his wife, Elizabeth Strong. Mrs. Smith died 
in 1844, leaving an infant son, Sidney Binion Smith, who served 
throughout the Civil War as a captain in the Twenty-sixth Alabama, 
C.S.A., and afterward studied and practiced medicine in Mississippi. 
He died in 1889, leaving four sons and a daughter. 

After the death of his wife Mr. Smith removed to Fayette, 
Alabama, where he was elected Brigadier general of Militia. There 
he devoted himself more exclusively than heretofore to the prac- 
tice of law, and built up a large business. Yet he could not resist 
the call of letters, and in 1847 he wrote "War and Its Incidents," a 
review of several works of a military character, published in the 
Southern Quarterly Review, January, 1848, Vol. xiii, pp. 1-54. This 
article foreshadowed the nomination and election of General Taylor 
to the Presidency; and to this paper, which attracted wide attention, 
the author attributed his own election to Congress. It displays the 
depth of his historical researches, and shows his predilection for 
tracing historical parallels. 

In 1847 he married, at Fayette, Mary Jane Murray, daughter of 
James Murray and Mary Moore, his wife. By this wife, who died 
in 1853, General Smith had three children: Lucy, who died in youth; 
Sophie, now the widow of William F. Walker of Fayette County, 
and William R. Smith, Jr., who was a lawyer and editor, and who 
died April i, 1898, leaving three sons and a daughter. 

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General Smith was elected judge in 1850, but retired in 185 1 and 
was elected to Congress. Hardly had he taken his seat in the House 
of Representatives when an occasion arose that impelled him to put 
into practice one of the principles he had learned in his study of the 
life and writings of Washington. Louis Kossuth had just landed 
in this country, his avowed purpose being to enlist the active aid of 
the United States against Austria and Russia and in behalf of Hun- 
gary. On December fifteenth Judge Smith delivered a speech in 
opposition to the resolution of welcome. His stand and his speech 
threw the House into a turmoil; but, although the resolution of 
welcome was adopted, Judge Smith's action turned the tide of 
popular and Congressional folly, and did more than anything else 
to prevent the foreign entanglement into which the United States 
was being led by an espousal of Kossuth's cause. He immediately 
achieved a national reputation, and was popularly called the "Kos- 

A third time — in 1855 — ^Judge Smith was elected to Congress. 
In the canvass of 1856 Judge Smith was defeated by Judge Syden- 
ham Moore; whereupon he returned to the practice of law in Tus- 

In the meantime he married, at Washington, in 1854, Wilhelmine 
M. Easby, daughter of Captain William Easby of Washington, and 
his wife, born Ann Agnes Maria King, the widow of Colonel Over- 
street, member of Congress from South Carolina. Mrs. Smith, the 
third wife, who survives him, is a woman of great natural gifts and 
high culture. 

While practicing law in Tuscaloosa Judge Smith found time to 
write a novel descriptive of social and political life in Washing- 
ton at that period. It was entitled 'As It Is,' and was published in 
i860. A sequel was promised, but never was published. 

In 1859, while devoting himself to his profession and to the 
preparation of a new edition of the ' Alabama Justice,' he was in- 
vited by the Alabama Alpha of the Phi Beta Kappa Society to read 
a poem at the commencement of the University in i860. He had 
nearly a year in which to prepare it, but six days before the com- 
mencement, only a few lines were written. Being urged on by his 
friends, he completed the poem in three days, and this poem, "The 
Uses of Solitude," his most inspired production, is considered by 
many competent critics suflScient to place him among the great Amer- 
ican poets. 

Judge Smith had always been a strong Union man, and when 
the call was issued for a State Convention to meet at Montgomery 
in January, 1861, he stood for election and was sent as a delegate 
to the Convention. 

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Upon the adjournment of the Convention in March, 1861, Judge 
Smith went home and raised the Sixth Alabama Battalion, which 
grew into the Twenty-sixth Alabama Regiment, of which he was 
commissioned Colonel; and at the same time he prepared for pub- 
lication, the 'History and Debates of the Secession Convention,* a 
work of the very highest value. He went into the camp of in- 
struction; but was almost immediately elected to the Confederate 
House of Representatives, in which he served from the begin- 
ning to the end, in 1865. After the close of the war, he ran for 
Governor in 1865, but was defeated and entered the political field 
but once again, namely in 1878, when he was defeated for 

He resumed in Tuscaloosa the practice of law, and also devoted 
himself to literary pursuits, principally the translation into English 
couplets of parts of Homer's "Iliad." About this time Judge Smith 
began also the preparation, under a joint resolution of the General 
Assembly, of a condensation of the Alabama Reports, which were 
published in ten volumes, the first in 1870, and the tenth in 1879, 
covering all the reports from Minor to the Eighth Alabama Re- 
ports, inclusive. 

In 1870 he was elected president of the University, and served 
as such for about a year. The Board of Trustees was composed of 
Radicals, and it was thought that the election of Judge Smith would 
win over to the University the support of the people; but the an- 
tagonism to them was reflected on him, and seeing that he would be 
unable, under the existing state of feeling, to build up the insti- 
tution, he retired. 

In 1879 ^^^ removed with his family to Washington, where he 
resided during the remainder of his life, practicing law for several 
years, but devoting the greater part of his time, even until his 
death, to literary pursuits. In the early 'eighties he edited and pub- 
lished The Law-Central, to which he contributed a series of ex- 
haustive studies in criminal insanity, including a study of the Guiteau 

In 1889 he published one of his most valuable contributions to 
the history and literature of Alabama: 'Reminiscences of a Long 
Life ; Historical, Political, Personal, and Literary.' During the suc- 
ceeding years of his life he prepared a second volume of the same 
character, but it was never published. 

In 1890 he published a humorous poem, in rhyming couplets, en- 
titled "Was it a Pistol? A Nut for Lawyers," descriptive of a trial 
by jury for the carrying of a concealed pistol by an unsophisticated 
country youth, who was also a ventriloquist. He printed also, for 
private circulation, a number of poetical pieces, the principal one be- 

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ing "Polyxena: A Tragedy," based upon the story of that character 
in the "Iliad." 

He retained the vigor of his intellect unimpaired to the very day 
of his death, which occurred in Washington, February 26, 1896, of 
an acute attack of bronchitis, the funeral services being conducted 
at the Roman Catholic Church of St. John the Baptist by the Bishop 
of Mobile, 

He was a man whose love for his kin never hesitated; whose 
affection and loyalty to his friends never wavered; a man singularly 
free from any taint of envy, jealousy, or malice, even toward an 
enemy; indeed, it seems that it might have been well for him polit- 
ically had he cherished resentment. 


A carefully prepared bibliography is given in Owen's 'Bibliography 
of Alabama, Report of the American Historical Association, 1897,' 
in which more than forty titles are given. A partial list is here 
presented : 

College Musings. 1833. 

The Bridal Eve. 1834. 

The Bachelor's Button. 1837. 

Hard Cider. 1840. 

War and Its Incidents. Southern Quarterly Review, January, 

Kossuth and His Mission. A Speech in the House of Rep- 
resentatives, December 15, 1851. 

The American Party and Its Mission. Speech in the House of 
Representatives, January 15, 1855. 

The Uses of Solitude, i860. 

As It Is. i860. 

History and Debates of the Convention. 1861. 

The Royal Ape. 1863. 

Diomede. From Homer's "Iliad.*' 1869, 

Key to Homer's "Iliad.*' 1872. 

Polyxena: A Tragedy. 1879. 

Assassination and Insanity: Guiteau's Case Examined. i88i. 

Reminiscences of a Long Life. 1889. 

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Extract from t poem of four hundred lines, written at the age of seTenteea* and 
published in 'College Musings,' 1833. 

. . . Up rose the god ; and 'round his face, arrayed 
In sweetest smiles, a heavenly radiance played 1 
A gleam of joy came o'er his visage pale : 
He whispered softly : "Pride of Albion, hail ! 
Hail to the bard, whose variegated lyre 
Shall melt the heart, and turn the soul to fire ! 
Whose simple notes shall please the lowly churl. 
And charm the ears of lady, lord and earl. 
Whose lofty strains shall draw the princely tear; 
While freedom laughs; and petty monarchs fear. 
That tyrant sway must fail — ^while to the stage 
The power is given to rule the groveling age; 
To bring the deeds of tyrants to the light, 
And threaten kingdoms in one single night." 
♦ ♦**** 

The train of nymphs then on the hill was seen. 
With one that tower'd o'er all the rest, a queen; 

"Ah! gentle youth! ah! lovely boy" she said. 
But here she paused and hung her pensive head. 

The boy was dreaming sweetly, but he heard 
Her angd voice, and treasured every word. 
She wept awhile, and then her tears she clieck'd, 
"Awake!" she said — ^and Shakespeare stood erect! 

And how the stage has gloried in its might. 

Since Shakespeare mused on fancy's giddy height. 

Winging afar his unpremeditated flight! 

Marked you the eagle as he soared on high. 

Losing himself amidst the cloudless sky. 

Yet piercing all beneath him with his keen dark eye? 

Thus soared great Shakespeare, buoyant, strong, and proud, 

Wielding his silver wand with lightnings on the cloud. 

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Long years ago, at night, a female star 

Fled from amid the Spheres, and through the space 

Of Ether, onward, in a flaming car, 

Held, furious, headlong, her impetuous race: 

She burnt her way through skies ; the azure haze 

Of Heaven assumed new colors in her blaze; 
Sparklets, emitted from her golden hair, 
Diffused rich tones through the resounding air; 

The neighboring stars stood mute, and wondered when 

The erring sister would return again: 

Through Ages still they wondered in dismay; 
But now, behold, careering on her way. 
The long lost Pleiad ! lo ! she takes her place 
On Alabama's Flag^ and lifts her radiant face. 


From "The Uses of Solitude," a poem published in 1860. 

. . .But not alone the Solitude I sing 

Of desolate islands and serene retreats 

Where genius with the Gods may meditate: 

I sing the Solitude of Mind; the power 

To draw the sense from its accustomed use 

Of natural avenues; the power to be 

Still in the uproar, deaf to all the shouts 

Of angered multitudes ; the power divine 

To pluck from turbulence the time to think; 

To shape the glowing thoughts to themes sublime 

And meditate perfections infinite; 

While Fury raves and mobs tumultuous reign. 
* * ^ * * * 

I held a festival myself, last night ; 
In my own closet, with my books alone. 
My little chamber thronged with visitors. 
Some were the spirits of antiquity; 

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Those demi-gods that walk the dusty realms 
Of dim Tradition; mystic forms that grace 
The niches of the old world's Pantheon — 
And others of a giant race who came, 
Grateful to greet their masters; Poets came. 
Fresh from Olympian sports, with bays yet green 
And flowers unwilted by the century suns; 
Came warriors storming from the battlefields. 
With dinted shields and foreheads darkly gashed. 
O these were glorious guests; Milton was there, 
And seemed that he would let me touch his robe ! 

♦ i|e * s|s i|c i|c 


Extract from a speech in Congress, December 15, 1851. 

... I NOW call your attention, Mr. Speaker, to the fact, that 
Kossuth is trying to stir up the young and the aged of the 
country to take up arms in favor of Hungary. The fate of 
the unfortunate fifty who fell in Cuba, whose melancholy end 
hung a pall of gloom over the whole country, which is still 
floating about us like shadows of mourning for poor Critten- 
den and Kerr, ought of itself to be .sufficient to cause the 
American people and the American Congress to pause and 
make the solemn inquiry whether or not they are ready so 
soon to invite, to foster, to encourage and to feast another 
* foreigner — ^another perturbed, restless, political revolutionist? 
It is impossible for any man to look this question calmly in 
the face as connected with Kossuth, his speeches, the press, 
and public excitement, without seeing all the features of the 
Cuban expedition on a larger scale. We cannot yet assign 
to Lopez his proper position; I trust that posterity will find 
in him all the elements of a martyr and of a hero. All we 
know of him is, that he beguiled the young of the country, and 
that he deceived the old of the country — ^not publicly, not by 
eloquence, but by dinner table conversation, private under- 
standings, loans, and Cuban-bondisms. We know that how- 
ever wrong he was, the press clamored greatly in his favor, 
and aided him to disseminate his mischievous doctrines, and 

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finally to fit out his fatal expedition. We all know its end. 
Disgrace and death terminate the inglorious cause! And the 
Government of the United States was compelled in humilia- 
tion to acknowledge a wrong committed by her citizens on 
the rights and property of a foreign nation. 

Now, sir, this illustrious exile cannot consider that I bring 
him into contempt by mentioning his name with that of 
Lopez. I do it with no such intention. I believe that Lopez 
may find a lofty place in the estimation of posterity. I refer 
to him merely for the purpose of showing the dangerous in- 
fluence that may be exercised in our country at this moment 
by any agitator. . 

Yet Kossuth came here, a Republican! — a better Repub- 
lican than any of us, who were born Republicans ! Expotmd- 
ing for us the policies of our fathers, and giving us new read- 
ings of the doctrines of Washington ! Well, I rejoice at his 
conversion! I congratulate him, and the friends of liberty 
throughout the world that American atmosphere has had such 
magical effect upon him. 

But I must hasten on. Let us hear Kossuth upon Wash- 
ington! In his Manchester speech he compliments the father 
of this country for promulgating what he is pleased to term, 
in his unique phraseology, "the letter-marque of despotism." 
Washington's policy of non-intervention is, in the idea of 
Kossuth, "the letter-marque of despotism!" . 

In the last speech which Kossuth made in New York — 
to which speech I take no exception whatever — I have no. 
doubt that he had seen or heard of my resolutions before he 
delivered it because it is free from incendiarism which marked 
his former speeches — ^but in the speech, he says that George 
Washington never recommended national non-intervention, but 
only neutrality ; and he resorts to a species of fallacious logic 
by which he endeavors. to draw a distinction between "neu- 
trality" and national "non-intervention." 

Now, Kossuth is unfortunate in this remark. Every one 
must know that this idea was poked at him, during his re- 
flections by some busy-body who wanted to supply him with 
historical facts. . 

This sage Hungarian, because the word non-intervention 
is not used, jumps at the conclusion that Washington only 

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recommended neutrality! Non-intervention is the predomi- 
nant idea pervading all that Washington has said on this sub- 

Everybody knows, Mr. Speaker, what has been our poliqr. 
It makes no odds whether Washington recommended it in so 
many words. And what has been the result of that policy? 
Why, from the small beginning of three millions of inhabi- 
tants, we have now got twenty-three millions; frc«n a small 
number of states, we are now over thirty; from a ragged pop- 
ulation, we present the best dressed population in the world; 
and from poverty we have risen to the greatest wealth and 
prosperity. Why and how did we get all these ? By an adher- 
ence to the great principle of staying at home and minding 
our own business. It is a principle upon which a private man 
thrives. It is a principle upon which private families prosper. 
It is a principle upon which a neighborhood has peace and 
prosperity and enjoyment. It is that great principle which 
has raised us up to be the greatest government on earth. But 
Kossuth says that we may depart from that policy now— that 
it was wise when we were young, but that now we have grown 
up to be a giant and may abandon it. Here is another bit of 
philosophy for you. We can all resist adversity. We know 
its uses — 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like a toad, ugly and venomous. 

Wears yet a precious jewel in its head. 

It is the crucible of fortune. It is the iron key that unlocks 
the golden gates of prosperity. I say, God bless adversity; 
she pricks me, and I bleed, and am well. But the rock upon 
which men and nations split is prosperity. This man says that 
we have grown to be a giant, and that we may depart from 
the wisdom of our youth. But I say that now is the time 
to take care. We are great enough ; let us be satisfied ; pre- 
vent the growth of our ambition; prevent our pride from 
swelling, and hold on to what we have got. Do you re- 
member the story of the old governor, who had been raised 
from rags? His King discovered in him merit and integrity, 
and appointed him a satrap— a ruler over many provinces. 
He came to be great, and it was his custom to be escorted 


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throughout the country once during the year, in order to 
look into the condition of his subjects. He was received and 
acknowledged everywhere as a great man, and a great gov- 
ernor. But he carried about with him a mysterious chest, 
and every now and then he would look into it ; but let nobody 
else see what it contained. There was a great deal of curiosity 
excited by this chest, and finally he was prevailed upon by some 
of his friends to let them look into it. Well, he permitted it, 
and what did they see ? They saw an old ragged and torn suit 
of clothes, the clothes that he used to wear in his humility and 
in his poverty ; and he said that he carried them about with him 
in order that when his heart began to swell and his ambition 
began to rise, and his pride to dilate, he could look on the rags 
— they reminded him of what he had been, and thereby he was 
enabled to resist the temptations of prosperity. Let us see 
whether this can illustrate anything in our history. Raise 
the veil, if there is one, which conceals the poverty of this 
union when there were but thirteen states. Raise the veil 
that conceals the rags of our soldiers of the Revolution. Lift 
the lid of the chest which contains the poverty of our begin- 
ning, in order that you may be reminded, like this old satrap, 
of the days of your poverty, and be enabled to resist the ad- 
vice of this Tempter, who tells you that you were wise in 
your youth, but that now you are a giant, and may depart 
from that wisdom! Remember, Mr. Speaker, I beseech you, 
remember, now, the uses of adversity! Let us take advantage 
of it, and be benefitted by it ; for great is the man, and greater 
is the nation that can resist the enchanting smiles of prosperity. 
In referring to our humble beginning, and our great and 
astonishing growth, I am induced to pause a moment, and ask, 
why is it that we should so lightly and carelessly treat propo- 
sitions of this sort, which involve, as it is admitted this propo- 
sition does involve, the very principle by which we have grown 
to our present condition? What was the cost of this great 
and glorious Confederacy? We cannot find it by going back 
and searching the old Quartermaster's reports. We cannot 
find it in dollars and cents — we know not how to estimate it by 
this method. The true place to find the cost is on the battle- 
field of the Revolution — in the rags, the deprivations, the 
bleeding feet of your soldiers — the history of those brave men, 

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who fell in their youth. In this contemplation we cannot 
arrive at an estimate of the cost of these States. But I ask, 
if it is wise in this legislative assembly so lightly and care- 
lessly to pass by the wisdom of our fathers ? . . . 

For myself, and for the American people, I can safely 
say, that we cannot look with indifference on the struggles 
which arise between freedom and oppression in any quarter 
of the earth. Our sympathies are warmed, our enthusiasm 
is kindled when we hear of the triumph of liberty over tyranny. 
We rejoice in revolutions tending to overthrow monarchies, 
without pausing to inquire into the causes, or to look to the 
end ; hoping and believing that the fall of a tyrant or a king 
contributes its mite to the establishment of freedom. And in 
the expressions of these sentiments and feelings we are clam- 
orous and loud and forward, so that the nations of the earth 
are surprised, that when the "tug of war" comes we are seen, 
afar off, standing upon our own high promontories of lib- 
erty, merely looking on and shouting. To those expressions 
of surprise I answer : Patriotism is always cold, cold, except 
to its own country ! It is warmed only by the blazing fires of 
its home affections, and kindled at the altar of Allegiance to 
the Constitution ! God save the Constitution for the wisdom 
which created it, and for the policies which have sustained, 
perfected and preserved it I 


Delivered in the Alabama Convention, 1861, on Us vote against the 
Ordinance of Secession. 

Mr. President — I will not at this time express any ^' 
gument of opposition I may entertain towards the Ordinance 
of Secession. I have many reasons for this course. 

I have met here a positive, enlightened and unflinching 
majority. I have respect for them, and I despair of being 
able to move them. 

In times like these, when neighboring States are withdra^" 
ing one by one from the Union, I cannot get my c(Misent to 
utter a irfirase which might be calculated, in the slightest de- 
gree, to widen the breach at home. My opposition io tb^ 

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Ordinance of Secession will be sufficiently indicated by my 
vote; that vote will be recorded in the book; that book will 
take up its march for posterity; and the day is not yet come 
that is to decide on which part of the page of that book will 
be written the glory or the shame of this day. 

It is important to the State that you of the majority 
should be right, and that I should be wrong. However much 
personal gratification I might feel hereafter in finding that I 
was right on this great question, and that you were wrong, 
that gratification would indeed be to me a poor consolation 
in the midst of a ruined and desolated country. Therefore, 
as the passage of the Ordinance of Secession is the act by 
which the destiny of Alabama is to be controlled, I trust that 
you are right, and that I am wrong. I trust that God has in- 
spired you with His wisdom, and that, under the influence 
of this Ordinance, the State of Alabama may rise to the 
highest pinnacle of national grandeur. 

To show, sir, that the declarations that I now make are 
not forced by the exigencies of this hour, I read one of the 
resolutions from the platform upon which I was elected to this 
Convention : 

'* Resolved, That we hold it to be our duty, first, to use all 
honorable exertions to secure our rights in the Union, and if 
we should fail in this, we will maintain our rights out of the 
Union — for, as citizens of Alabama, we owe our allegiance 
first to the State ; and we will support her in whatever course 
she may adopt." 

Thus, Mr. President, you will observe that the course I 
now take is the result of the greatest deliberation, having been 
matured before I was a candidate for a seat in this Conven- 
tion ; and there is a perfect understanding on this subject be- 
tween me and my constituents. 

It but remains for me to add, that when your Ordinance 
passes through the solemn forms of legislative deliberation, 
and receives the sanction of this body, I shall recognize it as 
the supreme law of the land; my scruples will fall to the 
ground; and that devotion which I have heretofore through 
the whole course of my public life given to the Union of the 
States, shall be concentrated in my allegiance to the State 
of Alabama. 

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Extract from a ipccch deliYcred in the Alabama Convention, 1861. 

Sir, in every act of mine, in this Convention, I shall look 
towards i^eace. I would not wantonly provoke any nation nor 
would I favor a law which would not be likely to receive the 
approbation of the wisdom of the age. 

There is no wisdom in war. It is the most brutal occu- 
pation of mankind. It should never be courted. The glory of 
American history is found in the fact that all her wars have 
been thrust upon her. We have conquered on almost every 
battle-field ; we have vindicated our courage and our prowess 
before the eyes of the world ; and have sent forth the historic 
heralds of our fame to proclaim to posterity, the achievements 
of our arms. We have a right now to rest — and to court the 
more inviting shades of peace without being suspected of cow- 
ardice, or charged with an inglorious disix)sition to avoid 
danger. Peace, then is our policy; for in peace alone can 
agriculture flourish. If cotton is king his throne is peace, 
for WAR, that turns the ploughshare into the sword, will de- 
prive him of the implements of his power and strip away 
the habiliments of his Royalty. 

Sir, the blessings that are to come upon the State from this 
revolution, must be the blessings of Peace. You can do 
nothing without commerce — there can be no commerce with- 
out peace. You have achieved a revolution, but you have yet 
a great work to accomplish — you have a country to build up. 
You are not merely working out a dazzling reputation. You 
are not to be satisfied with having pulled down a govern- 
ment You have not created a political storm for the unholy 
purpose of filling the history of the times with stirring 
events and disastrous accidents. You are not merely opening 
the womb of emergencies, that great warriors, great orators, 
great statesmen, and great poets may spring out of it. You are 
not only creating an era, an age — ^that may be an age of 
bronze — ^an age of iron — an age of gold — or an age of blood. 
You are here for the loftiest of all purposes — ^to build up a 
country — for the lasting happiness, and the permanent pros- 

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perity of the millions that inhabit the land. Look, then, to 
Peace — ^that stately and commanding Queen — 

Beneath whose calm inspiring influence 
Science his views enlarges. Art refines. 
And swelling Commerce opens all her ports. 


Extract from a speech delivered in the Alabama Conventios, 1861, on the 
Ratification of the Constitution. 

Sir, in what a strange position do we place ourselves, by 
calling in foreign allies for our protection! Our fathers con- 
quered the Britons in the name of Liberty. We, their de- 
generate sons, nozv call in those very Britons to aid us in the 
protection of that Liberty! Thus, we place this goddess in 
the tyrannical hands of those from whom our fathers rescued 

It is a sad day, sir, when an American has to admit that 
he depends upon foreign allies for his protection. 

Protection! Sir, we proclaimed, in the so-called Monroe 
doctrine, that on those portions of the North American Con- 
tinent not already under foreign dominion, no Power outside 
of America shall place its governmental foot. Shall we aban- 
don this ? Do we not abandon this when we look around for 
an alliance of defense ! 

We must not depend upon foreign alliances. Our insti- 
tutions are too essentially different from theirs. They will 
always demand more than they give. They surrender shadows 
and demand substances. We have had some experience in 
these matters with England, as well as with France. The 
generous sacrifices of the immortal La Fayette, whose impulses 
were as magnanimous as his services were important, were 
followed at last by the most exorbitant demands by the 
French Government. The mission of Genet cannot be for- 

England will never forget her colonies. The gap in her 
crown, caused by the tearing away of those jewels, has not 
yet been filled. It is the dream of her political philosophy to 
see those jewels restored; and English pride, with English 

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ambition, is far reaching. Her revenge is as deathless as the 
oath of Hannibal. This never sleeping desire will run through 
generations. The same spirit of monarchy that crushed the 
last remains of Cromwellism in England, and pursued the 
regicides to the farthest limits of the earth, is still sleepless 
and vigilant, though biding its time, to restore the jewels of 
America to the English crown. 

On this question, then, of the acknowledgment of our 
independence by foreign powers, there is nothing to appre- 
hend except, indeed, the dangers that are to follow an un- 
natural alliance. 

England and France will recognize us with joy; but not 
with the joy of true friends ; it will be the joy of Tyrants that 
gloat over the prospective desolation — ^the joy of Royalty 
vaunting over the fall of Constitutional Liberty. Wilber force, 
a great colossal prophet, though dead, still looming over the 
dome of the British Parliament, points with his bony fingers 
to dismembered America and exclaims, "Behold the fall of 
Constitutional Liberty," and towering above its ruins, "Behold 
the irresistible genius of universal emancipation!" 

Let us beware, then, of foreign friends. England has no 
feelings in common with us. Her politicians are emancipa- 
tionists ; and it is but a year since Lord Brougham broadly in- 
sulted the American Minister in London, on account of Amer- 
ican slavery. Nothing but the last necessity should induce a 
free nation to submit to an alliance for defense with a mon- 
archical one. Monarchy is a political maelstrom, whose vor- 
tex is the oblivion of Freedom. 


From 'Reminiscences' 

Great was the excitement in the village of Tuskaloosa, 
with its 2,000 inhabitants, when the news went abroad tna 
the town had been done for by a gang of counterfeiters, an 
that several fifty-dollar counterfeit bills had been left in ^"^ 
hands of a prominent merchant for goods sold to that amo^" * 
Every cabin in the village was emptied of its inhabitants-" 

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men, women, and children — ^agape for news, and craving 

At that time the penalty for the crime of counterfeiting 
was death. And in this particular case the honor of the town 
called for pursuit, capture, and execution. Within two hours 
after the spreading of the news of this outrage, a band of bold 
citizens was organized for the pursuit ; and Major James Chil- 
dress, as leader, came rapidly riding into the village on a large 
iron-gray horse, accoutred with rifle and pistols, and in hunt- 
er's garb, followed by a lively pack of hounds, yelping in 
response to the mellow winding of the huntsman's horn. 

This band was made up of the best and most daring of the 
citizens of Tuskaloosa and North Port, well armed and ac- 
coutred for the emergency, and, with a wagon drawn by two 
mules, supplied as if for a party on a camp hunt. The raiders 
took the road leading to Walker County, as it was known that 
the counterfeiters had come from that direction. 

♦ ♦ 4c * * ♦ 

About half a mile from the camp there was a rude log 
cabin on the edge of a small clearing of four or six acres of 
land, on which corn and cotton (the latter in a small patch) 
had been produced. In this cabin were found a woman and 
two small children. The cabin was of the rudest sort, but fresh 
built, only one room, about twenty feet square, a bed in each 
of the four comers. About fifty yards off was a row of 
small stables, of logs very strongly put together, four in num- 
ber, by the side of a small but very substantial crib well filled 
with com and oats. Our hunters agreed to spread themselves 
around the neighborhood as observers for the day. Childress 
and Prewitt visited the cabin and inquired for the master of 
the place. The woman said that her husband had gone to 
Huntsville, she did not know when he would be back, for it is 
"a good way out there." Loitering around, Prewitt looked 
in at the stables and noted that in each stall there was a horse 
freshly fed and groomed. And lo ! in one of the stalls he saw 
his veritable filly ! Upon his discovery he called Childress and 
exclaimed: "We have treed the 'coon! There stands my filly, 
it is all a lie about going to Huntsville. It takes men to look 
after stock in this way.*' 

Childress was of the same opinion, and concluded from the 

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facts that the counterfeiters were in the adjacent woods. The 
party was speedily made acquainted with the facts, and every 
rifle and pistol was well prepared for whatever emergency 
might arise. Childress took pains to conceal from the woman 
in the cabin that he had made any discovery, and the idea of 
camp-hunters was sedulously cultivated. But Prewitt insisted 
that the stables should be picketed, and four men were detailed 
with special orders to keep an eye on the stables while the party 
carelessly scattered themselves up and down on the edges of 
the bluflFs and cliffs of the creek, each with an eye for discovery. 

If Clear Creek was in Switzerland it would be renowned 
for its scenery. It is a small stream, but its fierce waters 
dash along within their craggy confines uttering a sound as if 
made up of the mingling of a thousand rivulets, yet soft and 
distinct; the harmony never ceases. Here are crags to be 
castled in the future, with adjacent lands in valleys surpass- 
ingly rich. Here, for the distance of twenty sinuous miles, is 
room for as many mills, with natural power to drive enough 
spindles to clothe the population of a small empire. The whole 
is broken into numerous cascades, over one of which the water 
rolls without a break for the width of nearly one hundred feet 
and with a ten-foot plunge that seems the mimic of an echo 
of some far-off Niagara. 

Near this, just above on one side, is a frightful crag, over- 
looking the bed of the stream, with a continuous threat to top- 
ple over, and bathe its rugged limbs in the lucid waters below, 
while, on the farther side, the bluff is of moderate height, de- 
clining gradually into a rich valley. 

Just below the fall, comes in from the adjacent hill a froth- 
ing rivulet — 3, never-dying feeder to the larger stream, and 
empties itself, as if dropping its fleecy treasure from great 
baskets of snow. 

But our camp-hunters are suddenly excited, and at the 
same time perplexed, by having discovered a very light curl of 
smoke issuing from a crevice in the edge of the crag, near 
the summit. Clambering up the locality of the bluish emission 
they discovered the mouth of a miniature crater about the size 
of the head of a large barrel. The conclusion was that the 
smoke came from a cavern below ; and the gang began recon- 
noitering the place to find an entrance, having jumped at the 

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conclusion that the counterfeiters were concealed under ground. 
While our hunters were eagerly looking around for a trail a 
little girl, one of the children from the cabin aforenamed, 
came dashing down the hill with a little water bucket in her 

Major Childress hailed her, and looking into her little 
bright eyes which glowed like those of a scared minx in her 
full, round face, he inquired where she was going. "To the 
spring,'* she said, her face nothing exhibiting excepting the 
flushing eagerness natural to a child running. She was about 
six years old, very alert and active, in her bare feet ; her long 
black hair was twisted into two rolls after the country fashion 
of putting up pig- tail tobacco. 

Now just below this cascade the bed of the creek widened 
considerably, and the body of the water spreading out over 
a larger extent of space disclosed the rocky bottom, so that 
the stream was very shallow. 

Twenty or thirty yards below, a row of rocks had been 
thrown, making a foot-path over which one could pass almost 
dry-shod. Over this path the child glided, and went up toward 
the cascade on the other side, where there was a spring, by 
which she sat down, resting her bucket on a stone. 

In the meantime the hunters had crossed the rocky foot- 
path, and bent their course into the woods beyond. Childress, 
walking up to the spring where the little girl sat, said: "Will 
we find plenty of deer out in this direction?" 

"Oh, yes; pap killed a buck over there yesterday." 

The little girl kept her eyes on Childress, as he passed 
along, until she thought he was out of sight when she darted 
like an arrow, and disappeared under the waterfall. 

Childress had seen her, and at once beckoned to his friends, 
who were on the lookout ; and four of the gang, besides Chil- 
dress, followed the child under the waterfall hastily. 

There was a space of about three feet between the cascade 
and the bluff, serving as an opening, so that one could pass in 
and under, keeping at the same time perfectly dry. They 
found, over head, a flat rock extending the entire width of 
the creek, over which the waters rushed in a body with a 
regularity and precision as if the hands of man had made the 
dam out of solid timbers for the express purpose of letting 

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the stream pour over it. There was also under foot a solid 
rock, without a perceivable crack in it, and this was drj' within 
a few feet of the plunge. Under the edge of the rock over 
which the waters poured, and for eight or ten feet inwardly, 
there was light enough to see clearly across the cavern, but 
beyond all was darkness impenetrable. The five men passed 
rapidly across and at the side beyond groped onward in the 
darkness, feeling every step of the way by pointing their rifles 
ahead, above, and under foot. The rock was firm beneath, 
while above and all around them was nothing visible. The 
hunters touched each other to assure themselves, said nothing, 
and moved on cautiously, listening. 

Suddenly a gleam of light flashed upon them, as if from 
an opening shutter. 

"What is it, Lizzie?" said a gruflF voice at the opening. 

"There's a gang of men here — hunters they say — ^just now 
crossin' the creek." 

The opening was closed and the hunters advanced rapidly 
to the spot. Feeling, their hands came in contact with a rough 
plank or slab, upright, and firmly set as if in a wall. It was 
about two feet wide, six or seven feet high ; on one edge of it 
was a strip of undressed raw-hide running all the way from 
top to bottom, and was nailed to the slab on one side and to a 
post on the other, and was undoubtedly used as a hinge for 
the slab to swing on. Childress made a light from his tinder- 
box and took the surroundings. There was a cavernous 
yawning on each side of them; in front a wall with a slab 
door. The men arranged themselves on the opening side of 
the slab, the light was extinguished, and they waited for events, 
supposing that the door would open directly to let out the 
little girl. 

There were voices within, but unintelligible. In a very 
little while the door swung open, the girl passed out, and a 
naked, brawny, and stalwart arm was extended, grasping the 
edge of the shutter with intent to close it : Childress clutched 
the wrist of that arm in his left hand with a deathly grip, and 
with his right hand seized the man by the throat and dragged 
him at once out of the door and to the ground; placed his 
knees upon his breast, and cried out : "Enter, boys; I have got 
this fellow ;" whereupon, in an instant, four rifles were leveled 

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at the occupants within — ^two men sitting on a bench, in front 
of a log-fire. The men sprang up. 

"Hands up!" cried Prewitt, "and surrender or die — right 
here." The men were paralyzed, they offered not the slightest 
resistance. One of them, a tall, straight man, over six feet 
high, simply said: "Don't shoot, men," then turning to his 
comrades, exclaimed: "The jig's up" 

In twenty minutes the three were handcuffed, and led out of 
the den. In the den were found quantities of paper counter- 
feits on the North and South Carolina and Georgia banks, 
tools and implements for engraving bills, and dies for casting 
counterfeit coin of all denominations, and a quantity of poorly 
executed counterfeit metal dollars, half-dollars, quarters, and 

The den was nearly triangular in shape, with rugged walls, 
but dry to the touch, and with a solid stone floor. On one side 
of the den was an opening to another and a darker cavern, 
which the hunters did not care to explore. A fire-place, quite 
snug, had been made in the corner, and over it was built up a 
sort of chimney by stones, adhering to the walls on the inside, 
so as to convey the smoke to the apex. 

The submissive men were mounted on their own horses and 
well secured. Prewitt had captured his lost filly, on which he 
rode, "proudly pre-eminent." Childress wound his melodious 
hunting horn, the hounds yelped a long and sonorous response, 
when the hunters took up their homeward march. The raid- 
ers halted at Jasper for the night,* and the prisoners, well 
ironed, were lodged in the cellar of old Jemmy Daniel's house. 
About three o'clock on the second day after this, the victori- 
ous raiders, with their prisoners, were entering the ferry boat, 
on the Blade Warrior River, at Tuskaloosa, 

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THOMAS LOWNDES SNEAD, author of The Fight for Mis- 
souri/ was bom in Henrico County, Virginia, January lo, 1828. 
He was graduated at Richmond College in 1846, at the University of 
Virginia in 1848, was admitted to the Bar, and in 1850 removed to 
St. Louis. In i86o-'6i, he became editor and proprietor of The 
Bulletin, a newspaper published in St. Louis. At the outbreak of the 
Civil War, he promptly took sides with the South, and during the 
war period held several responsible positions, first as aide-de-camp of 
Governor Claiborne F. Jackson, then as Adjutant-general of the Mis- 
souri State Guard, and tater as chief of staff of the Army of the 
West. His military career came to a close in May, 1864, when he 
entered the Confederate Congress as a member from Missouri. 

At the close of the war, in 1865, he went to New York City and 
became managing editor of the Daily News, a Democratic paper of 
that city. Two years later he gave up journalism to resume the 
practice of law, and was admitted to the Bar of New York. In 1886 
he published his *Fight for Missouri,' (Charles Scribner*s Sons), the 
first volume of a projected history of the war in the trans-Mississippi 
department, which was at once accepted by both sides as a fair and 
impartial history of the period it covers. 

Colonel Snead died in New York City, October 17, 1890. His 
remains were brought to St. Louis for burial in Bellefontaine Ceme- 
tery, the Southern Historical Association attending his funeral in a 

Of his charming personality and lovable nature his old-time friends 
and acquaintances speak with strong affection. His buoyant optim- 
ism and sunny disposition, always the same even in the most trying 
circumstances, his genial good-humor and inexhaustible fund of 
anecdotes on all occasions, inspired the most despondent with fresh 
courage and made him a welcome visitor in every circle. A friend 
writes of him that his nature rose superior to feelings of ill-will or 
revenge; and those who had been his stanchest opponents afterward 
became his warmest friends. 


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Froui 'The Fight for Missouri.' Copyright, D. Appleton and Company, and used 
here by permission of the publishers. 

This letter* having been referred by the President to 
General Scott, the latter forthwith sent Lieutenant Robinson 
with a detachment of forty men, from Newport Barracks to 
St. Louis "to be placed by the department commander at the 
disposal of the Assistant Treasurer." This detachment reached 
St. Louis on the morning of the nth of January, and was 
quartered in the Government Building, wherein were the 
custom-house, the post-office, the Federal courts and the As- 
sistant Treasury. 

This absurd display of force by the Government pro- 
voked the intensest excitement throughout the city. Extras 
were issued by the papers; great crowds began to gather 
around the post-office ; and an outbreak would have followed 
had not General Harney wisely ordered the troops to the 
arsenal, and thereby quieted the people. No one seemed to be 
able to explain the coming of these Federal soldiers. The 
Assistant Treasurer kept himself prudently out of view. As 
soon as the fact had been telegraphed to Jefferson City, the 
Governor called the attention of the General Assembly to it, 
and Senator Parsons offered these resolutions: 

"Resolved, That we view this act of the administration as 
insulting to the dignity and patriotism of the State, and cal- 
culated to arouse suspicion and distrust on the part of her 
people towards the Federal Government. 

"Resolved, That the Governor be requested to inquire of 
the President what has induced him to place the property of 
the United States within this State in charge of an armed 
Federal force." 

The removal of the troops from the post-office to the arse- 
nal caused the General Assembly to drop the matter. But the 
incident had important consequences nevertheless, the very 
reverse, however, of what had been intended by Mr. Stur- 
geon; for it set both Union men and Secessionists to making 

^Letter from the Assistant Treasurer to the President, suggesting the propriety of 
concentrating troops for the protection of the Government funds and the arsenal. 

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serious and diligent preparation to get possession of the 
arms in the arsenal. 

It was now that Blair first began to convert the Wide- 
Awakes into Home Guards, and to drill, discipline, and arm 
them. He saw that the time for action had come. The State 
Government had, with the new year, passed into the hands of 
a Governor, who was an avowed sympathizer with the seced- 
ing States and was pledged to resist all attempts of the Fed- 
eral Government to enforce its laws within those States, and 
he was supported by a General Assembly, one House of which 
was almost unanimously, and the other very decidedly, in 
accord with him. A law had already passed the Senate, and 
was pending in the House, to take away from the Republican 
Mayor of St. Louis all authority over the Volunteer Militia 
of that city, and to confer that power upon the Governor 
instead; and Blair knew that the object of this law was not 
only to deprive the Mayor of the means with which to help 
the Federal Government, in case of disturbances in St. Louis, 
but also to range the military companies of the city on the side 
of the Secessionists, if the latter should undertake to seize 
the arsenal, or if any conflict should take place between them 
and the Union men. 

Blair did not hesitate. He never did. But, availing him- 
self of the excitement produced by the bringing of Federal 
troops to St. Louis, he began the formation of companies of 
Home Guards, that self -same night. The work, once begun, 
was carried on actively by him, with the assistance of a com- 
mittee of safety of which Oliver D. Filley, Mayor of the city, 
was chairman, and James O. Broadhead, secretary. Its other 
members were Samuel T. Glover, a Kentuckian ; John How, a 
Pennsylvanian, and Julius J. Witzig, a German. Filley was 
a' New Englander and Broadhead a Virginian. 

The first company which they enrolled was composed of 
both Germans and Americans, and Frank Blair was elected 
captain. Eleven companies, aggregating about seven hundred 
and fifty officers and men, nearly all of them Germans, were 
soon drilling and getting ready for active service. Some of 
them were armed (partly by Governor Yates of Illinois, and 
partly by private contributions), but most of them were still 

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unarmed, at the time that the election of delegates to the State 
Convention took place. 

The Governor and other Southern Rights men viewed 
these Home Guards with just apprehension ; and consequently 
they put into the military bill, then before the Legislature, a 
clause which was intended to disband them. This clause re- 
quired the commanding officer of each of the several military 
districts into which the State was divided to disarm every 
organization within his district, which had not been "regularly 
organized and mustered into the service of the State ;" and to 
confiscate the arms of such organizations to the use of the 
State. Had this bill become a law in February, the course of 
events in Missouri might have been essentially changed. 

The St. Louis Secessionists were no less active than the 
Union men. They were few in number; but most of them 
were young, ardent and full of zeal. They regretted the de- 
termination of the Cotton States to secede. They would rather 
have had them remain within the Union, and fight within it 
for their constitutional rights. But they believed neverthe- 
less that these States had the right to secede and to establish 
a separate Government if they chose to do so. Whether this 
was a constitutional right, or a revolutionary right they did 
not care; nor ought they to have cared. For the God-given 
right of revolution is a higher and a more sacred right than 
any which is based upon the mere bargainings and conces- 
sions of men. The people who abandon it or fear to assert 
it always lose their freedom sooner or later and sink surely 
to the condition of serfs or slaves. To the exercise of this 
natural right in 1776 the Republic owes its existence. To 
the assertion of it by the South in 1861 the Republic owes its 
present grandeur, and its perfect unity. 

When South Carolina seceded these young St. Louisians 
no longer doubted that all the Cotton States would secede and 
form a Southern Confederacy, that between this Confederacy 
and the Union war would ensue, and that in this war the 
whole country would take part. For themselves they were 
resolved to fight with and for the South, among whose people 
and upon whose soil most of them had been bom. 

Throwing aside all vain regrets and bravely accepting 
the inevitable, they began at once to fit themselves for war; 

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began to learn the rudiments of the art in the school of the 
soldier. They were very few, however, till Sturgeon's folly 
set fire to the passions of men and lit the flames of civil war 
on the soil of Missouri. Many then joined their ranks — many 
who had hitherto held aloof for love of the Union or for the 
sake of peace, but who now despaired of both. 

Among these was Basil Wilson Duke, a young lawyer from 
Kentucky. He was about twenty-five years of age, able, enter- 
prising, and bold; giving promise, even then, of those sol- 
dierly qualities which eventually made him John Morgan's 
most trusted lieutenant and the brilliant commander of a Con- 
federate cavalry brigade. In the presidential election he had 
supported Douglas with great zeal and some eloquence, and 
since then had earnestly deprecated disunion and striven to 
stay the current that was setting toward secession in Missouri. 
Now he awoke suddenly to the conviction that the North was 
going to make war upon the South. That was enough for him. 
To go with his people when they were attacked; to stand by 
them when they were in danger, uncaring whether they were 
right or wrong; to share their perils, and to fight with them 
against their foes, was with him an instinct and a duty. He at 
once joined the small band of secessionists and became their 
most conspicuous leader. Among them he found men as brave 
and as earnest as he; some of them with ability equal to his 
own, and talents as useful, perhaps, though not so brilliant and 
attractive. One of these, Colton Greene, was a prosperous 
young merchant, hardly as old as Duke. A South Carolinian 
by birth, he sympathized earnestly with the people of that State 
and justified their conduct in seceding. With a rather delicate 
physical organization, and of a retiring disposition, he pos- 
sessed fine sensibilities, a cultivated intellect which was both 
sharp and strong, courage, and determination. He was, with- 
al, painstaking, laborious and earnest, upright and honorable. 

These two, with Rock Champion, a great-hearted young 
Irishman, and a few others as daring, were as quick to orga- 
nize the Secessionists into Minute Men, as Blair had been to 
organize his Wide- Awakes into Home Guards ; and they did it 
boldly and openly, beginning it the very day that the Federal 
troops arrived at St. Louis. 

Never was there a finer body of young fellows than these 

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Minute Men. Some were Missourians; some from the North; 
some from the South ; and others were Irishmen. Among them 
all there was hardly a man who was not intelligent, educated, 
and recklessly brave. Some who had the least education were 
as brave as the bravest, and as true as the truest. Most of them 
fought afterwards on many a bloody field. Many of them 
died in battle. Some of them rose to high commands. Not 
one of them proved false to the cause to which he then pledged 
his faith. They established their head-quarters at the old 
Berthold mansion, in the very heart of the city, at the corner 
of Fifth and Pine Streets, and also formed and drilled com- 
panies in other parts of the city, against the time that they 
could arm and equip themselves. They were hardly three hun- 
dred in all, but they were so bold and active, so daring and 
ubiquitous, that every one accounted them ten times as nu- 

Like Blair and the Home Guards, they had their eyes 
fixed upon the arsenal, and expected out of its abundant stores 
to arm and equip themselves for the coming fight. In that 
arsenal were sixty thousand good muskets, while in all the 
Confederate States there were not one hundred and fifty thou- 
sand more. They were barely three hundred men, and more 
than ten thousand stood ready to resist them; but for love of 
the South, and for love of the right, and for the honor of 
Missouri, they were willing to peril their lives any day to 
get those muskets. And they would have gotten them or per- 
i :>licd in the attempt but for the advice of their leaders at 
Jefferson City. 

These counseled delay. They believed that it was better to 
wait till the people should, in their election of delegates to the 
Convention, declare their purpose to side with the South. They 
never doubted that the people would do this; never doubted 
that they would elect a Convention which would pledge Mis- 
souri to resist the subjugation of the South, and would put her 
in position to do it. Sustained by the voice of the people, and 
instructed by their votes, the Governor would then order Gen- 
eral Frost to seize the arsenal in the name of the State, and he, 
with his brigade and the Minute Men, and the thousands that 
would flock to their aid, could easily do it. 

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From 'The Fight for Missouri/ 

From the summit of Bloody Hill, Lyon could see the entire 
field. It all lay before him, its outmost limits hardly a mile 
away. He knew now that Sigel had been defeated, and that 
the troops which had put him to flight would soon be coming, 
all flushed with victory, to join the force which Price was get- 
ting ready to hurl again against his own disheartened men. He 
could see Gratiot hurrying even now with more than five hun- 
dred fresh troops to give vigor to the assault that was about 
to be made upon his own weary men, broken down as these 
were by a long night-march, and by five hours of the very 
hardest fighting ; could see him clambering up the hill-side now, 
himself and his men eager to fight under the eye of the brave 
soldier that was leading them to death or to victory. He could 
also see the rest of Pearce's brigade forming on the opposite 
hill and about to bring their bright muskets into the thickening 
fight, muskets that had not yet been tarnished by the smoke of 
battle. And all through the valley that lay beneath him he 
could see Missourians, and Texans, and Arkansians — men who 
had as yet taken no part in the desperate fight that had been 
raging since day-dawn — thousands of men, taking heart again 
as they got used to the din of war, and clutching their shot- 
guns and rifles, resolved to be "in at the death." He saw all 
this and more; and there was no hope left within him but to 
dash upon Price with all his might and crush him to the ground 
before these gathering forces could come to his help. 

He now brought every available battalion to the front. 
"The engagement at once became general, and almost incon- 
ceivably fierce along the entire line, the enemy" (these are the 
words of Schofield and Sturgis) "appearing in front, often in 
three or four ranks, lying down, kneeling, and standing, and 
the lines often approaching to within thirty or forty yards as 
the enemy would charge upon Totten's battery and be driven 

Neither line of battle was more than a thousand yards in 
length. Price guarded carefully every part of his own. Wher- 
ever the danger was greatest and the battle most doubtful, 

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thither would he hasten and there would he stay till the dan- 
ger was all past. In the intervals of the fight he would ride far 
to the front among his skirmishers, and peer into the thick 
smoke which tangled itself among the trees and the bushes, and 
clung to the ground as though it wanted to hide the com- 
batants from each other; would peer wistfully into it till 
through its rifts he could discern what the enemy was doing, 
and then his voice would ring down the whole length of his 
line, and officers and men would quickly spring forward to 
obey it ; for long before the battle was over they had all learned 
that they were fighting under one of the best and truest of 
soldiers, under one who knew how to fight them to the greatest 
advantage, one who would expose them to no useless danger, 
nor to any danger which he would not Jiimself share. Many a 
time did they cry out to him as with one voice : "Don't lead us. 
General; don't come with us; take care of yourself for the 
sake of us all; we will go without you." Several times his 
clothing was pierced by bullets, one of which inflicted a painful 
wound in his side. Turning with a smile to an officer that was 
near him, he said: "That isn't fair; if I were as slim as Lyon 
that fellow would have missed me entirely." No one else knew 
till the battle was ended, that he had been struck. One of his 
aides. Colonel Allen of Saline, was killed while receiving an 
order; Weightman was borne to the rear, dying; Cawthon and 
his adjutant were both mortally wounded; Slack was fear- 
fully lacerated by a musket-ball, and Clark was shot in the leg. 
Colonel Ben Brown was killed, Churchill had two horses shot 
under him, Gratiot one. Colonels Burbridge, Foster, and Kel- 
ly, and nearly every other field officer, were disabled. But in 
spite of all these losses Price grew stronger all the time, while 
Lyon's strength was fast wasting away. 

Walking along his line from left to right, encouraging his 
men by his own intrepid bearing and by a few well-spoken 
words ; rallying them where they were beginning to give way ; 
steadying them where they still stood to their duty ; inspiring 
them with his own brave purpose to make one more effort to 
win the day, while yet there was time to try, Lyon had nearly 
reached the advanced section of Totten's battery when his 
horse, whose bridle he held in his hand, was killed, and himself 
was wounded in the leg and in the head. Stunned and dazed 

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by the blow, and his brave soul cast down by the shock, he said 
in a confused sort of way to those that were nearest that he 
feared the day was lost. But he came quickly to his senses, 
and ordering Sturgis to rally the First Iowa, which was begin- 
ning to break badly, he mounted a horse that was offered to 
him, and swinging his hat in the air, called out to his men to 
follow. A portion of Mitchell's Second Kansas, which Lieu- 
tenant Wherry had just brought again to the front, closed 
quickly around him and together they dashed into the fight. 
The next minute Mitchell was struck down severely wounded, 
and almost instantly thereafter a fatal ball pierced Lyon's 
breast. He fell from his horse into the arms of his faithful 
orderly, who had sprung forward to catch him, and in another 
minute he was dead. 

The command devolved upon Major Sturgis. He called 
his chief officers together. Price had already been reinforced 
by Gratiot, and now Dockery's Arkansas regiment and a sec- 
tion of Reid's battery were getting into position, and with 
them was the Third Louisiana, which for the first time since 
its encounter with Plummer in the early morning had been 
gotten together under its colonel (Herbert), and was eager 
to add to the laurels which it had already gathered in the fields 
on which it had defeated Plummer, and routed Sigel. 

Sturgis decided to retreat. The order was given, and was 
silently obeyed, Steele's battalion of regulars covering the 
retreat, and marching away from the field in perfect order. 

It was now half past eleven. Silence had again fallen 
upon Bloody Hill, on whose rough surface the dead of both 
armies lay in great heaps. The Confederates, stretched out 
among the bushes in which they had been fighting all day, were 
waiting for the enemy's next onset, or for Price's order to 
attack, and ready for either. Suddenly a cry rang along their 
ranks that the Federals were retreating; that they had already 
gotten away, and were ascending the hill from which they had 
begun the attack upon Rains at dawn of day ; that they had at 
last abandoned the field for which they had fought so bravely 
and so well against unconquerable odds. Springing to their 
feet they gave utterance to their unspeakable relief and to 
their unbounded joy with that exultant cry which is never heard 
except upon a battle-field whereon its victors stand. It reached 

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the ears of Weightman — ^true soldier and true gentleman — 
whose life was fast ebbing away in the midst of the men that 
loved him. "What is it ?" he asked. "We have whipped them. 
They are gone." "Thank God !" he faintly whispered. In an- 
other instant he was dead. Of him General Price well said, 
in his report that: 

"Among those who fell mortally wounded upon the battle- 
field none deserve a dearer place in the memory of Missouri- 
ans than Richard Hanson Weightman, Colonel commanding 
the first brigade of the second division of this army. Taking 
up arms at the very beginning of this unhappy contest, he had 
already done distinguished service at the battle of Rock Creek. 
where he commanded the State forces after the death of the 
lamented Holloway, and at Carthage, where he won unfading 
laurels by the display of extraordinary coolness, courage and 
skill. He fell at the head of his brigade, wounded in three 
places, and died just as the victorious shouts of our army be- 
gan to rise upon the air.** 

Nothing could better attest the constancy, the courage, 
and the devotion with which both armies fought that day on 
the wooded summit of the Ozark hills, than do the losses which 
each sustained. 

In the engagement between Mcintosh and Plummer, in the 
cornfield east of the creek, the Federals lost eighty of the three 
hundred men who took part in the fight ; and the Confederates, 
who were over one thousand strong, lost one hundred and one. 

In the final attack upon Sigel, which McCulloch and Mc- 
intosh led, the Confederate loss was trifling;;, but Sigel, whose 
panic-stricken men were pitilessly cut down by the Missourians 
and Texans who pursued, lost two hundred and ninety-three 
men. Of these, one hundred and sixty-seven were either killed 
or wounded, and one hundred and twenty-six were taken 
prisoners. These losses were confined exclusively to Sigel's 
Infantry and Artillery, which aggregated about one thousand 
and fifty men. Captain Carr's squadron of United States 
Cavalry which formed part of his column was not under fire 
and did not sustain any loss. This fact did not, however, pre- 
vent Captain Carr from being brevetted for gallant and meri- 
torious conduct on the field. 

But It was on Bloody Hill that the main battle was fought. 

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and the heaviest losses were suffered. There Lyon and Price 
confronted each other, until, after four hours of desperate 
fighting, Lyon was killed ; and still the battle raged for a time, 
till, overwhelmed by ever-increasing odds, Sturgis abandoned 
the unequal contest, and left the field. Here the Union Army 
lost not only its general, and so many of its field officers as to 
come out of the fight under command of a major, but of the 
3,500 men that went into action nearly nine hundred were 
either killed or wounded. The First Missouri alone lost 295 
men out of less than eight hundred, the First Kansas 284, and 
Steele's Battalion of regulars sixty-one out of 275 officers 
and men. 

The Confederates lost in almost the same proportion. Of 
the 4,200 men who fought there under Price 988 were either 
killed or wounded. Nearly every one of his higher officers 
was disabled, and he was himself wounded. Churchill had two 
horses shot under him, and lost 197 of his 500 men. 

The total losses of the Federals during the day amounted 
to 1,317 officers and men killed, wounded, and missing; that 
of the Confederates to 1,230 killed and wounded. 

Never before — considering the numbers engaged — had so 
bloody a battle been fought upon American soil; seldom has 
a bloodier one been fought on any modern field. 


From *The Fight for Missouri.' 

All this time, during all this disorderly retreat of a de- 
feated army over difficult roads and through a not friendly 
population, more than twice its number of well mounted, and 
willing. Southern soldiers lay absolutely idle at Springfield. 
They might have easily captured the entire force, and its richly 
loaded train, worth more than $1,500,000, and with the cap- 
tured stores could have armed, equipped, and supplied ten 
thousand Confederates. But McCulloch sulked in his tent, and 
his army melted away. 

Nothing excuses that brave soldier's conduct on this occa- 
sion except the fact that the Confederate Government was then 
opposed to an aggressive war, and therefore objected to the 

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invasion of any State which had not seceded and joined the 
Confederacy. In entering Missouri at all he had violated both 
the orders under which he was acting, and the wishes of the 
Confederate Secretary of War, who had expressly cautioned 
him to remember that the main purpose of his command was to 
protect the Indian Territory, and had instructed him to assist 
the Missourians only when such assistance would subser\'e that 
"main purpose." But even these instructions hardly justify 
McCulIoch's refusal to gather the fruits of a victory which 
would have been so valuable to the Confederacy, and which 
he could have gathered so easily and so abundantly. 

He would, perhaps, have pursued even at the risk of dis- 
pleasing his Government, had he not by this time become so 
prejudiced against the Missourians as to be wholly unable to 
recognize the skill with which they had been commanded, and 
the courage and constancy with which they had fought on 
Bloody Hill, from the beginning to the end of the battle. The 
distrust which he conceived the first moment that he saw their 
unorganized condition, and which had been increased by the 
behavior of a few of them at Dug Springs, had gone on in- 
creasing day by day ever since, and reached its height when, 
through his own fault, his army was completely surprised by 
Lyon and Sigel on the morning of the battle. "The fault was 
theirs ;" he said to the Secretary of War, "the two extremes of 
the camp were composed of mounted men from Missouri, and 
it was their duty to have kept pickets upon the roads on which 
the enemy advanced.'' Though he ought to have known that 
one of these two extremes — the right — was composed of Tex- 
ans and Arkansians of his own brigade, and that in any case 
it was his own duty to have kept his camp properly guarded, 
he unjustly attributed the blunder to the Missourians alone, 
and distrusted and disliked them more than ever. Nor could 
he help contrasting their condition with that of his own well- 
organized, well-disciplined, well-equipped, and finely uni- 
formed brigade, with its full complement of quarter-masters, 
commissaries and ordnance officers, unlimited supplies of all 
kinds, and an overflowing army-chest. Many of them had 
not even enlisted, and had only come out to fight; thousands 
of them had not been organized into regiments; many of them 
were unarmed; none of them were uniformed; very few of 

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them had been drilled. Their arms were mostly shot-guns and 
rifles, and they had no other equipments of any kind ; no tents 
at all; no supplies of any sort, and no depots from which to 
draw subsistence, or clothing, or ammunition, or anything. 
They had no muster-rolls and they made no morning reports. 
They bivouacked in the open air, they subsisted on the ripen- 
ing com, and they foraged their horses on the prairie-grass. 
McCulloch was not wise enough to see that they were, in de- 
spite of all these drawbacks, true soldiers, as brave as the 
bravest, and as good as the best, and he still distrusted them, 
even after they had unflinchingly borne the brunt of the battle 
for five hours, and with the aid of Churchill, Gratiot, and 
Woodruff, had won the main fight on Bloody Hill. 

Both Schofield and Sturgis say in their reports of the battle 
that after the death of Lyon, "the fiercest and most bloody 
engagement of the day took place" ; and that then " for the first 
time during the day, the Union line maintained its position 
with perfect firmness, till finally the enemy gave way and fled 
from the field*'; that "The order to retreat was then given to 
Sturgis," and the whole column moved slowly to the high, open 
prairie, and thence to Springfield. Though these statements 
were doubtless believed at the time, the officers who made them 
would hardly repeat them now. If they had "driven the enemy 
precipitately from the field," they themselves would not have 
fled in such trepidation as to leave behind the dead body of 
their heroic commander. 

The Union Army did leave in good order, but it left in a 
hurry; and Price, instead of being driven from the field, was 
still holding the line that he had taken at the beginning of 
the battle, nor had he been driven back one hundred yards from 
this line at any time during the entire day. But it is very 
easy to be mistaken as to what your enemy is doing on a bat- 
tlefield, as any one can see who will take the trouble to study 
the reports of any hotly contested fight. Federals and Con- 
federates alike made many such mistakes. 

It is a noteworthy fact that the little army which fought 
under Lyon against Price and McCulloch furnished at least 
seven major-generals and thirteen brigadier-generals to the 
Union. Among the former were Schofield, Stanley, Steele, 
Sigel, Granger, Osterhaus, and Herron; and among the latter 

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were Sturgis, Carr, Plummer, Mitchell, Sweeny, Totten, Gil- 
bert, and Powell Clayton. 

Among the Confederates who became General officers in 
their service were McCulloch, Mcintosh, Churchill, Greer, Gra- 
tiot, Dockery, Herbert, and McRae. Among the Missourians 
who rose to that grade were Price, Parsons, Slack, Shelby, 
John B. Clark, Jr., Colton, Greene, and CockrelL Clark, who 
was one of the most gallant soldiers, is now Clerk of the 
United States House of Representatives, and Cockrell is a 
Senator from Missouri. 

Out of the dust and smoke and out of the din and carnage 
of the battle Sterling Price emerged the leader of his people. 
Never till now had they known him. That he was just and 
upright, that he had been a successful general in the war with 
Mexico, that he had governed Missouri wisely and well for 
four years, and was a man to be trusted at all times and in all 
circumstances they knew; but not till now had they seen him 
display that genius for war which fitted him for the command 
of great armies. Calm, quiet and unimpassioned in the af- 
fairs of every-day life, and somewhat slow of thought and of 
speech, the storm of battle aroused all the faculties of his soul, 
and made him "a hero in the strife." When friends and foes 
were falling fast around him, and Life and Death waited upon 
his words, then it was that he saw as by intuition what was 
best to be done, and did it on the instant, with the calmness 
of conscious strength, and with all a soldier's might. Of dan- 
ger he seemed to take no note, but he had none of that brilliant 
dash, of that fine frenzy of the fight, which men call gallantry, 
for he was great rather than brilliant. He was wise, too, and 
serenely brave, quick to see, prompt to act, and always right. 
From this time he was loved and trusted by his soldiers, as no 
Missourian had ever been; and never thereafter did he lose 
their trust and devotion, for throughout all the long years of 
war — years crowded with victories and with defeats — ^the vir- 
tues which he displayed that day grew more conspicuous all the 
time, while around them clustered others which increased the 
splendor of these — unselfish devotion to his native land, unend- 
ing care for the men who fought under the flag, constancy un- 
der defeat, patience under wrongs that were grievous, justice 
toward all men, and kindness toward every one. 

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In its flight from Springfield the Union Army had again 
left the body of its General to the care of his foes. These 
caused it to be decently buried near the home of one of his 

Lyon had not fought and died in vain. Through him the 
rebellion which Blair had organized, and to which he had him- 
self given force and strength, had succeeded at last. By cap- 
turing the State militia at Camp Jackson, and driving the Gov- 
ernor from the Capitol, and all his troops into the uttermost 
corner of the State, and by holding Price and McCulloch at 
bay, he had given the Union men of Missouri time, opportunity, 
and courage to bring their State Convention together again; 
and had given the Convention an excuse and the power to de- 
pose Governor Jackson and Lieutenant-Governor Reynolds, to 
vacate the seats of the members of the General Assembly, and 
to establish a State Government, which was loyal to the Union, 
and which would use the whole organized power of the State, 
its Treasury, its Credit, its Militia, and all its great resources, 
to sustain the Union and crush the South. All this had been 
done while Lyon was boldly confronting the overwhelming 
strength of Price and McCulloch. Had he abandoned Spring- 
field instead, and opened to Price a pathway to the Missouri ; 
had he not been willing to die for the. freedom of the negro, 
and for the preservation of the Union, none of these things 
would have then been done. By wisely planning, by boldly 
doing, and by bravely dying, he had won the fight for Mis- 

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It has been made sufficiently clear in the Introduction and 
the General Preface that the designation "Southern" is 
geographical, and is merely incidentally suggestive of sec- 
tionalism in any political sense. While it may connote pro- 
vincialism, or rather provincialisms — for there are many 
smaller sections in this imperial domain — this means nothing 
more than that every great division of our common country 
has its peculiar characteristics. To-day it is just as appropriate 
to speak of the provincialism of New England, with its as- 
sumed superiority of culture, or of New York and its ad- 
jacent territory, with its confident authority of leadership, or 
of the Middle West, with its growing feeling of local inde- 
pendence and its protest against Eastern domination, or even 
of the Pacific Coast, with its westward look of longing for 
new markets, as to speak of the provincialism of the South. 
No one has thought that any of these forms of individuality 
augurs ill for the Union save that of the South. But is it 
not a trifle absurd to consider as detrimental to our National 
life a provincialism caricatured at its worst in a certain shift- 
lessness of life, carelessness of dress and bearing, drawl of 
speech, and an overplus of ardent and often ill-directed emo- 
tionalism and pictured at its best in a selfless chivalry of life, 
an Anglican culture of speech, a regnant idealism in society 
and affairs, and a heart-warm devotion to home, state, and 
country in the order named? Into the making of a national 
literature, especially our National literature, must go eventu- 
ally all the local elements of these divers and diverse sections, 
and the charm of the final product will not be conventional 
uniformity but a variety that is forever surprising us with 
unexpected details and undefined gradations. 

It will become more and more apparent as the pages of 
the Library of Southern Literature are turned that the South's 
contribution to the intellectual life of the Nation has been 
commensurate with its magnificent territorial gifts and its 
unreckoned political service. If ignorance, pardonable for 
the lack of some such book as this, has warped and distorted 


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our judgments of our literature as a whole, then this series 
may call for a complete revision of some of our conventional 
views and compel a changed perspective in the examination of 
our literary life. 

To prove this is no part of the purpose of this general 
sketch of Southern literature; but from time to time the 
effort to correct, in passing, some present misapprehension 
may lead to a certain polemic or, at least, defensive tone. For 
this no further extenuation is needed and no further excuse 
is offered. 

That our American literature had its beginning with the 
very settlement of Jamestown, in 1607, we owe to doughty 
John Smith, whose romantic history led almost inevitably to 
romances seeming to many but slightly historical. He was a 
doer of brave deeds that lost nothing of their signal prowess 
in his recitals. His style may have been a little stiffened, as 
were his fingers, by the firm grasp of his sword, but no less 
in the style than in the singular contents of his writings may 
be detected his spirit of romantic adventure, his wealth of 
personal resourcefulness, and his heartiness of outspoken in- 
dependence, qualities that never have been lacking in his wor- 
thy Southern successors. The prosaic mind interprets his 
romantic "relations" as baseless figments of a highly wrought 
imagination ; but, on the other hand, the reader endowed with 
that imagination that maketh alive, or with that higher invag- 
ination in quest of spiritual essence amid mere appearances, 
will as readily see here essential truth over-colored by *^ 
fancies of a life lived so romantically as to be wellnigh unin- 
telligible to our duller age. Thus, too, his resourcefulness is 
translated into boastfulness, both American qualities but 0^ 
vastly different intrinsic value. Yet this resourcefulness, es^f^ 
lished beyond peradventure in the salvation of that stmgg^^^^ 
and despairing colony, has reasserted itself over and <^\^^ 
again in the South's long history, whether in overcoming ^j^J 
a smile the obstacles delaying prosperity or in meeting ^'^ 
a grim resoluteness on-coming adversity. The independence 
of Smith, with its origin in the heart and its utterance i^ ^ 
hundred ways, remained, and remains, a typical quality of ^^^ 
individualistic Southerner. 

In the first flush of the discovery of a land differingT ^^ 

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flora and fauna from their home, the several chroniclers — 
and they are far more numerous than this book records — 
manifested wide-eyed astonishment and a frank enjoyment, 
without apologies, of these new delights. This worldliness, as 
many afflicted with other-worldliness deemed it, was not in- 
consistent with a profound sense of religion; for in every 
grant and in every official act Divine authority was invoked 
and Divine guidance sought, even in reducing to Christianity 
the rebellious savages. The first act of the colonists was to 
set up a cross where they first touched land, and their first 
employment after they had eflfected a landing was in solemn 

These qualities, suggesting others equally obvious, have 
been dwelt upon not by way of distracting attention from the 
relative poverty of this period of colonialism, when the daily 
contest was for sustenance and safety, but to impress the real 
worth of these early contributions to our literature. They 
may not reach the highest form, though the prose style is not 
inferior to the average prose of the average Englishman of 
that day, nor may we learn very much of substantial weight 
from the contents ; but the inherent spirit revealing itself from 
that day to this in Soufliern writings makes this day of small 
beginnings illuminating. It is surprising to note how many 
characteristics of that early literature still persist as distin- 
guishing marks of more recent writers. 

Fromi6o7toi676, then, the period of waxing colonialism 
during which in England and in the colonies alike the burning 
question was of the Colony's self-preservation and growth, 
there was only a small body of writings, and not all of that 
is as yet exploited. Its significance, however, may be found in 
the vigor and vitality of Smith, in Percy's "graphic sketches 
of brightness and gloom," in the vividness of detail in Strachey 
and Hamor, in the scholarliness of Whitaker, and the spright- 
liness of roistering Pory. None of these equals in literary 
import Colonel Norwood's thrilling account of his Virginia 
voyage. In this the naturalness and freshness, with its per- 
sistent evidence of first-hand observation and its aptness of 
expression, compel us to do homage to one of our first Amer- 
ican stylists. Add to these the vigorous and enthusiastic sketch 
by Hammond entitled "Leah and Rachel," and Rich's crude. 

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rhymed chronicle of Gates and Newport, and the larger part 
of the tangible product of this first period is before us. 

It is true that George Sandys was far more accomplished 
as a litterateur than any of these, but it is a violent assumption 
to include among American writers this brilliant translator, 
who spent but a few years on this side of the Atlantic. None 
of these writers, to be sure, had been born on American soil, 
though some of them had been transplanted and had taken 
fixed root: but Sandys, by the fortunes of official position, 
was given opportunity to spend but a few years here, and in 
these he sought solace for the hours of his weariness in con- 
tinuing the translation already well under way when he came. 

The year 1676 is a convenient dividing line, whether it be 
considered as closing an old era or opening a new one. Nor 
need there be any haggling over this. Suffice it to say that 
colonial life never could be quite the same after Nathaniel 
Bacon had asserted himself, had fought a good fight, and had 
died what seemed a futile death. In the days before him, Colo- 
nialism, the spirit of loyal allegiance to the mother-country, 
had waxed steadily stronger. As yet no questions had arisen 
as to England's claims, no boldness had been shown in con- 
fronting her governors, and no desire or hope of asserting 
their own rights had been manifested. In one dramatic epi- 
sode of our National history, the Bacon Rebellion, the au- 
thority of England and the personal privileges of her gover- 
nors were flatly assailed and the inherent rights of the Colo- 
nists were vigorously proclaimed and stoutly defended. With 
Bacon's death faded the vision that had thrilled these hardy 
Virginians, but its memory remained. The first declaration 
of independence had been written not in imperishable words but 
in a courageous life that set for his countrymen a new stand- 
ard of self-reliance and self-sacrifice. No wonder that there 
grew up around this noteworthy adventure a wealth of legend 
and of story, and as little wonder that in literature as in life 
the colonist should then have become a trifle self-conscious. 
Had he not come to know himself in these experiences that 
had suddenly thrust upon him a new sense of responsibility? 
Out of this dramatic incident came, as was right, the best poem 
of our colonial days, the "Threnody on the Death of Bacon." 
If we could be quite sure that it was a contemporary produc- 


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tion we should be less guarded in according it the highest 
place in this period. 

If from 1676, standing like some signal-post between the 
years that count the struggle for existence and the years 
that, coalescing in their sameness, settle back into social 
and political supineness, we could stretch the line of our coun- 
try's progress to 1776, another year of singular pivotal dis- 
tinction, we might note how, like any other cord stretched from 
two high points, there was the inevitable decline for a space, 
and then the gradual climb to the other height. This second 
pivotal point may be drawn closer by a few years, for con- 
temporary historians, like David Ramsay, are sure that the 
year 1764 marks the end of our Colonial existence in fact 
though not in name. After the Bacon Rebellion and its fail- 
ure there were the natural reaction and the rapid reestablish- 
ment of the Colonial status. For a season, say to about 1737, 
midway between the birth of Washington and that of Jefferson, 
no pressing questions of personal or colonial rights arose, no 
problems of right adjustment between motherland and colony 
had to be solved. For thirty years, from Bacon's Rebellion to 
Beverley's History, intellectual progress was not rapid. It is 
true that William and Mary College had been founded, but 
the South was without educational system or adequate pro- 
vision for the training of her youth. The printing-press had 
not been needed, and the libraries, in individual cases of rare 
value, had been collected by young men educated in England 
as Englishmen. The first newspapers belong to about 1736, 
and intellectual contact hardly antedates them. 

In 1705 Beverley, by a sort of Providential interposition, 
wrote a simple, sensible, and attractive history of Virginia, 
with the historian's aim to be accurate in truthfulness and the 
historian's temptation to sacrifice his aim in the interest of 
sheer readableness. Hugh Jones was even simpler because 
he was more intent upon being understood in correcting errors 
as to his new home. Space cannot here be found for charac- 
terizing the work of James Blair, William Stith, and many 
others ; but no account of Southern letters would be satisfac- 
tory that did not draw particular attention to William Byrd. 
Without posing as a man of letters, he became our first author 
of unique yet universal merit. His literary work was a day- 

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by-day avocation, as he pursued the tasks of his leisurely yet 
busy life. "These casual jottings in the diary of a man of 
affairs combine the ease of the polished gentleman, the wit 
of an accomplished courtier, the breeziness of the observant 
woodsman, and the humor of the genial philanthropist. Crit- 
icism can do little toward defining the chann of these sketches 
unstudied in their frankness, warm in their humanity, natural 
in their vitality."* 

Unquestionably there had been sporadic flashes of humor 
in America before Byrd's day, but no single writer had so 
clearly accepted humor as a part of the philosophy of life. 
His humour is not accidental nor incidental, it is essential and 
pervasive. There is through all his writings the warmth of a 
vital good cheer, and at times the sudden flame of lambent 
wit is so clever and fascinating as to place him at the head 
of our long line of Southern humorists. Indeed, he developed 
a capacity for almost all forms of humor save that of mis- 
spelled words. 

It is singular that between 1736, when the first book was 
printed in the South, and 1764, when the National spirit was 
born, so little of literary significance was achieved. In these 
years, when Nationalism was carried in the womb of time, 
there were the retirement, reserve, and sane quiet that prom- 
ised virile offspring. Colonialism was declining, though as yet 
there was no display of antipathy to England's dealings with 
her colonies. The fullness of time was awaited with a self- 
satisfied patience born of helplessness. It was a period with- 
out dreams or visions, without compelling fears or constrain- 
ing hopes, without glory in a past or confident faith in a 
future. But in the quiet of these stagnant years men were 
being born and unconsciously trained for the large tasks of 
an ampler day. Nationalism came to birth in 1764, or, if ^^ 
dare not be so specific in fixing a date for a great movement, 
somewhere about the time when the accession of George IH 
forced America to reflect upon England's blind stupidity, an^ 
compelled England to know the potency of an aroused will- 
As sudden as the birth-cry came the voice of this new Na- 
tionalism in the impassioned oratory of the early 'sixties. The 
pent-up silence of a generation burst forth with lusty strength* 

••Virginia Literature,* by Carol M. Newman, University of Virginia. 

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and the world was aware that a new life had begun in a new 
land. Faces that had turned toward England with longing 
in their glances now fronted the orbing of a new nation. 
Souls unstirred by the prosaic tasks of making a living quiv- 
ered under the ennobling excitement of making a Nation. 
Men hitherto unchallenged to large endeavors now uttered 
challenges and essayed deeds that might mean death. 

It would be pleasant to dwell on this period, so satisfying 
to honest Southern pride because so rich in opportunities for 
oratory, statesmanship, and military efficiency, fields in which 
the Southerner has ever had his triumphs. The roll of South- 
ern names in this period would alone lend it a majesty, for 
what country in what time could furnish a longer or a nobler 

That the Revolutionary orations lacked written form, in 
which they could be preserved for our cavilling scrutiny, need 
not diminish one jot our appreciation of their effectiveness. 
Our formal analytical judgments may be less secure but the 
power of these incomparable orators in their crucial times is 
sufficiently attested. The penalty of greatness in this sphere 
lies in the fact that its success in achieving its object reduces 
its value when the object is achieved and takes its place among 
the settled questions. Cold-blooded afterthought may con- 
sider verbose, bombastic, and exaggerated what its own age 
considered eloquent, ardent, and convincing. Fashions in 
oratory change, but any fashion may be good that serves its 
own high purpose in a trying time. But this was not an age 
given to oratory, to "mere oratory" with the implied insinu- 
ation that the power of expressing significant thought suitably 
is unworthy of admiration; it was preeminently an age of 
calm, deliberate thinking. Statecraft occupied the largest 
share of incisive attention. The Declaration of Independence 
was among the first of that series of unmatched state papers 
commanding the respect of mankind. To some this seems less 
a state paper than a sophomoric outburst of metallic oratory; 
but these are they who confuse sophomoric with the divine fire 
of youth and oratory with the gift of words. This paper, 
rooting itself in George Mason's Declaration of Rights and 
formulating the new-born Nationalism, was not written in the 
"dry-light" of academic detachment, but in the "moist-light" 

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of personal and national participation. For every word hearts 
had throbbed in expectation and should throb again in suf- 
fering and in sorrow. This paper would one day be punctu- 
ated with battles and bloodshed and despair akin to death. 

After this war had passed, and the great Southern general, 
whose fame gains luster as he looms larger through growing 
distance, had given to his countrymen a land that was now 
their own, statecraft turned to the serious task of building a 
nation out of the several colonies with which England had 
made peace. Out of the brain of some single individual, and 
out of the richer wisdom of conferences and conventions, in 
which Southern men were prominent as leaders, came lasting 
papers making and defending constitutions and providing the 
"checks and balances" against the changes that were feared. 

Beyond oratory and state papers this period (i 764-1 800) 
offered little of literary value, but this little should be men- 
tioned. There were orators in the pulpit tempted to forget 
their higher mission in their interest in the absorbing cause of 
nation-making ; there were several plays, as those by Guilford, 
Burk, Robert Munford, and Williamson; there were narrative 
poems by Godfrey, Breckenridge, Johnson, Ivor, and Robert 
and William Munford; and poems of a certain lyric quality by 
St. George Tucker, James McClurg, and others. There were 
patriotic poems besides, like "Virginia Hearts of Oak;" but 
most of these literary ventures and vagaries seemed in general 
to have no higher purpose than to afford a respite from the 
strenuous times in which their authors lived. 

The independence declared had been successfully defended 
and a new nation had been created. To its head had been 
called, as a matter of course, its executive creator, but there 
were misgivings as to the form of government and as to the 
fate of the people under this new order to which the old had 
given place. But these same people were placated and their 
confidence was restored when authority glided smoothly from 
federalist to democrat. With 1800 our nationalism was con- 
firmed, beyond all cavil, and it remained now to enjoy it and 
to make large use of its rich opportunities. The effect of the 
Revolution and its success had been to give a new meaning 
to American life and to expand immeasurably its horizon. 
Ramsay asserts that the Americans had profited in every way 

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except in individual morality, and this had rather "marked 
time" than materially retrograded. With tasks now demand- 
ing their finest ability, and possibilities far exceeding their 
enlarged outlook their chief concerns were growth, progress, 
increase in wealth and power, and general expansiveness. The 
student of American literature discerns clearly that between 
1800 and 1850 there was surprising activity in the intellectual 
life of our Nation. The fact that the larger part of this activ- 
ity belonged to New England has been permitted to depreciate 
too much the products of other sections, notably the Middle 
States and the South. The splendor of that New England 
period has been fully recognized, and it cannot detract from its 
real merit that in the South also there was commendable 

This period from 1800 to 1850, divided for convenience 
where it divides itself in fact, extends from Jefferson to Jack- 
son and from Jackson to the Clay Compromise. When the 
long line of English presidents, English in temper, training, 
and culture, gave way to Jackson, a pioneer American indebted 
to his own country for all the training and culture he possessed, 
and certainly for his remarkable personality, literature also 
experienced its transformation from Anglican to American 
color. Not that these were essentially different, for America is 
the daughter of England, but that the fashion and form — ^and 
perhaps more vitally and no less perceptibly the spirit — changed 
from a loyal adherence to English models, standards, and tests 
to a willingness to be American, wherever this meant some- 
thing; different from being English, and to use American 
themes and treat them for American appreciation. In govern- 
ment as in letters, it meant a spiritual glorification of Amer- 
ica. The great religious revivals that swept over the newer 
country about this time were a deep manifestation of the new 
enthusiasm and zeal that were burning within the breasts of 
these regenerated Americans. Before 1829 the Presidents 
were chosen largely because they had demonstrated their power 
of statesmanship and political leadership; after 1829 largely 
because as military heroes they had fascinated the imagination 
of an adventure-loving people or because the sharp conflicts of 
partisanry had made them logical candidates. Their debt was 
not tQ the traditions of England but to the favor of their 

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countrymen. Jackson, for example, was little concerned about 
his country's relations, diplomatic or otherwise, with foreign 
countries, but was immensely concerned about the internal im- 
provement of the land over which he had been fortuitously 
called to preside. With a glint of the warrior's eye he gazed 
on the mountains and plains of the undeveloped West, which 
had given him his strength of body and mind. This devotion 
on the part of the President, and the people that believed in 
him, to the growth of America meant a literary independence, 
declared best, perhaps, in Emerson's famous address on "The 
American Scholar," but discernible as well in the work of 
nearly every Southern and Western writer. It meant inde- 
pendent thinking and utterance, with agitation and activity 
following fast on the heels of thought. 

But to revert to the period from 1800 to 1829. Southern 
literary productions during this period were not very numerous 
nor overwhelmingly significant. "The Star Spangled Banner," 
by Francis Scott Key, was its emblem, and true to this senti- 
ment were its thirteen novels, fifteen plays, and several met- 
rical romances, but their literary style was not equal to their 
literary intention. By sheerest accident the year 1800 was the 
noticeable initial year of this period, for in it appeared the 
first Southern biography and the first Southern play. The 
biography was of the greatest American citizen, George Wash- 
ington, and was the work of that puzzling and tantalizing 
figure, Parson Weems. This was soon followed by a wiser 
and weightier life of the same great hero by his personal 
friend, John Marshall. William Wirt's biography of Patrick 
Henry was less judicial, for Wirt was a lawyer, not a judge ; 
but it has the greater interest attaching to a brief by an inter- 
ested barrister on a subject worthy of his highest power. The 
names of Marshall, Madison, and Monroe, with others of note 
from other States, avouch the solidity of this period; while 
JeflFerson, Wirt, Randolph and others illustrate its versatility 
and keenness. With biography so well grounded there could 
be no fear that this literary type would be thereafter neglected. 
The first play by Williamson, director of the theater in Charles- 
ton, South Carolina, had nothing to do with local history, but 
some of the plays that immediately followed it were patriotic 
directly or by indirection. Charleston is intimately associated 

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with the development of the dramatic art, with particular en- 
couragement of the drama of classical motif and movement. 

The first Southern novel was 'Delavel/ published anony- 
mously. This was followed by others of hardly more than 
curious interest to the student to-day, though some are of 
value in reproducing the life and manners of that day. For 
this, however, one turns more confidently to the lighter de- 
scriptive essay, as those by William Wirt. 

Education made a gigantic stride when Jefferson, after the 
long delays that tried the patience of this sage, succeeded in 
founding the University of Virginia, which threw open its 
doors before the first quarter of the century passed. With 
its history are connected Madison and Monroe, who served on 
its directing board; Wirt, who was elected professor of law 
and to whom its presidency was tendered; and Edgar Allan 
Poe, who was among the students of the second session. 

The poets of this early period, omitting Poe, whose fame 
was secured later, were Shaw, Allston, Crafts, Wilde, and 
Pinkney. The Pinkney family, already famous, had found its 
best representative in William Pinkney, to whom some his- 
torians accord the honor of having delivered in the United 
States Senate the ablest speech up to that time. It is an in- 
teresting commentary on the transiency of things political in 
contrast with the permanency of things literary that William 
Pinkney is best known to-day as the father of Edward Coote 
Pinkney, the promising young poet of Baltimore. The poet's 
life was of promise rather than of performance, though his 
completed poems entitle him to high rank among the earliest 
of Southern poets of genuine merit. Among his contempara- 
ries was Richard Henry Wilde, a brilliant but melancholy 
young Irishman, who caught attention by a single poem and 
held it by a romantic career. His largest contribution to South- 
em life was the impulse he gave to the love of the artistic. 
In this he was not the equal of Washington Allston, but All- 
ston, though Southern by heredity, became by environment and 
attachment an Englander, New and Old. His friendships 
as well as his artistic work, both in painting and in poetry, 
gave him a deserved preeminence. Other poets of more or 
less merit, and poems of more or less sustained quality, might 
be mentioned, but our attention turns insensibly to the begin- 

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ning of Poe's artistic career, which never has been surpassed in 
its resolute singleness of purpose and its love of the highest 
he had known. 

But his story belongs to those sturdy years of stanch Amer- 
icanism between 1829 and 1850. With this new era a new 
vitality was infused into Southern letters, not associating itself 
with one type, much less with one name. Novels and plays 
ran into the hundreds and reached their highest mark in the 
novels of Kennedy and Simms. Oratory grew with every 
year, finding its largest service in affairs of State, and in that 
realm equaling the splendid exhibition of similar gifts in the 
England of Macaulay, Cobden, and Bright. Periodicals sprang 
up overnight, and revealed in their short lives the presence 
of unexpected and unusual powers among cultivated Southern 
gentlemen and ladies. Humor was rampant in recitals of 
lawyers riding their circuits and explorers seeking their for- 
tunes as pioneers. Above all, poetry and the short story were 
developed with such masterly skill by one artist that the age 
might well be called the Age of Poe. It will be of conse- 
quence to review these claims. 

That the short story existed in the South before Poe is 
probably true, but there is little or no evidence that for his 
transcendent skill in making plots or in providing for "totality 
of effect" he was under obligations to his American predeces- 
sors in either the South or the North. His intrinsic power in 
this sphere enabled him so to transmute whatever he may have 
discovered in foreign or domestic sources as to leave no traces 
of his borrowings. On the other hand, his successors have 
not only felt their obligation to him but have raised themselves 
in the appreciation of others when they have claimed, rather 
than confessed, spiritual kinship with him. Of his critical 
powers he made such good use in the periodicals with which he 
was connected as to convert this often dull and unprofitable 
department into the sprightliest and most informative pages. 
His recognition now as a poet of high merit, if not of the 
highest yet exhibited in America, is national and international, 
and even his most ardent admirers must now be satisfied with 
the place accorded him. The danger that he may be unwit- 
tingly overestimated and overpraised is now so apparent as to 
be readily avoided. 

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But Poe was not an isolated Southern poet, though there 
was no other of his rank in that region or in all America. 
His exact contemporary in birth-time and his exact compatriot 
in birth-place was Albert Pike, who became known to the 
British public before Poe, and who had the honor, never 
vouchsafed to Poe, of having his poems first published in 
British reviews. His poetry is far more Southern in theme, 
atmosphere, and feeling than Poe's, and its musical quality 
falls behind only so far as his ear for complex harmonies was 
less true and acute than Poe's for simpler, searching melodies. 

Judge Meek is primarily a historian, but he found time 
amid this and other occupations to indulge his taste both for 
reading and composing poetry. Doubtless he, as other South- 
em poets, would have won the Muse's favor more consistently 
had he wooed her with more constancy. Of his Southemism 
of subject and sentiment there can be no question among those 
who know his native State. Philip Pendleton Cooke, with his 
art flowering in a single poem, O'Hara, making a universal 
appeal in a poem for one occasion, and Simms, with his double 
province of poetry and prose, are a few of the more important 
poets of this period. 

These poets, who eschewed humor though they faced 
fresh and verdant life, were the contemporaries of some bril- 
liant observers who eschewed the poetry of life because they 
saw so obviously its humor. The humor of William Byrd, 
spontaneous, persistent, and original, based upon first-hand ob- 
servation and not despising the homely even when it was 
streaked with coarseness, though never depicting coarseness 
for its own sake, is the exact prototype of the humor of the 
school to which belonged Longstreet, Baldwin, Hooper, 
Thompson, Crockett, and others, who unconsciously emulated 
one or the other of his qualities. Not all of this school belongs 
to the period before 1850, for men laughed and sought occa- 
sion for mirth even in the face of impending disaster. The 
source of their humor was largely the fresh, mirthful, resource- 
ful, self-reliant pioneer life. These humorists were a part of 
the life they depicted, and therefore personal kindness, not 
heartless scorn nor supercilious contempt, is the prevailing 
mood of contemplation. Humor has always been a niark of the 
Southern temperament, and a large share of American humor, 

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perhaps even that of Mark Twain, may be traced to this sec- 
tion. That it is not better known is the public's loss, though 
the world never will laugh again as it has laughed, for the life 
so faithfully depicted seems in the light of our conventionalized 
civilization rather the figment of fancy than the facts of a 
turbulent existence. 

From these pioneer humorists, revealing the life of their 
times, it is an easy step to the novelists who, without discard- 
ing the aid of humor, essayed in different fashion the same 
task. Of course these novelists did not always portray their 
own times, but they did generally picture their own land. The 
past, immediate or more remote, had its fascinations, to which 
Carruthers and Simms and Kennedy yielded without protest. 
No roll can here be called of the writers of fiction, for they 
were too numerous, but an examination of the best will con- 
vince the unbiased of the independent excellence of these early 
romances and lead him to wish for new and attractive editions 
of these neglected treasures. 

There were still the lighter descriptive essays in the period- 
icals, but the Leagares, and the other scholarly contributors to 
the dignified Southern magazines, preferred the academic es- 
say, with its ample scope for exploiting their wide reading 
and substantial classical attainments. The fact is, that when 
these statesmen-scholars had aught to say of the problems of 
the day they sought the platform and spoke to men face to 
face. For they were, by nafure, devotion, and practice, public 
speakers with a freedom approaching volubility and a love 
of ornamentation tempting to indulgence in high coloring. In- 
justice, however, has been done these great speakers in the 
very praise bestowed so ungrudgingly upon them. Their elo- 
quence has been extolled as if it were a thing apart from the 
significance of their thought, and their oratorical gifts as if 
they were the mere accompaniments of display. Turn to 
Hayne's speeches, worthy of Webster's greatest force and 
adroitness in debate, to sge the inaptness of such a judgment. 
Nor was display or its corollary ornament at all the charac- 
teristic of the irrefutable logic of Calhoun or the basis of the 
popular triumphs of Clay. In fact, it is the exception rather 
than the rule, though the exceptions were far too numerous for 
our calmer, modern taste. Demonstrative oratory was culti- 

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vated sedulously in the days of Edward Everett and his next 
in succession, William C. Preston, and speakers sure of the 
applause of their admiring audiences were not afraid that 
learning would seem pedantry and oratorical fire mere physical 

The period of "division and reunion" may be counted as 
that generation or less extending from 1850 to 1876, the dates 
of which are convenient and provisional rather than final and 
imperative. The death of Edgar Allan Poe, in 1849, ^^^ those 
of the great leaders, Clay and Calhoun, by 1852, seem of them- 
selves to indicate a crisis in the course of events, both political 
and literary. The Clay Compromise accomplished nothing ex- 
cept to retard a controversy it could not avert. From the days of 
Andrew Jackson and Nullification, the contest as to the struc- 
ture of our government, as to internal improvements, national 
banks, tariff, slavery, and States' Rights had become more and 
more acute, with opinions and feelings more and more diver- 
gent and hostile. The Sguth had not suffered any losses in 
the war of words. Their debaters had lost no ground and had 
often routed completely their worthy adversaries. On the 
hustings and in the forum they were victorious, but the trend 
of the times and the spirit of the age were against them. The 
expansiveness that was creating a Western world, with bound- 
aries steadily moving in from the water line, was itself a chief 
argument against a construction of the Constitution that 
seemed too narrow and strict. As the crisis approached, the 
ten years from 1850 to i860 were years of fervid and even 
feverish premonition. There were many signs that the division 
of sentiment was becoming deeper and wider, and that the lines 
of allegiance were drawing closer and closer. It was a sig- 
nificant sign that Southern youth patronizing Northern institu- 
tions of learning withdrew and threw in their lot with South- 
ern institutions, from which so many of them marched straight 
to glorious death. The University of Virginia saw its most 
prosperous ante-bellum sessions in the late 'fifties, and it was 
her privilege to furnish more soldiers to the cause she espoused 
than any other college or university in America. 

The war focussed itself in four years, no long term in the 
life of a man and brief beyond notice in the existence of a 
nation; but, measured by sacrifice, suffering, woe, death, and 

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loss of hope. It seemed a veritable age. The South never has 
been ashamed of its part in that crisis of our National history^ 
for the right of local self-government, involving the right to 
defend their homes against hostile invasion, was an Anglo- 
Saxon right which their British ancestors had defended with 
their lives. It was a time of testing, too ; and the world saw a 
civilization that it had been inclined to consider ultra-aristo- 
cratic, feudal, and anachronistic, producing men of unexcelled 
virility in full-orbed manhood. No hardier soldiery ever went 
to fields of hardship than these that came from homes of com- 
fort and luxury, and none ever more willingly stripped them- 
selves of all the trappings of life when called to choose between 
them and life itself, which is honor and fidelity to duty. War 
has been declared brutal, and by inference brutalizing, but in 
the heart of that fierce struggle the South's leaders set such 
examples of purity of heart, loftiness of soul, unselfishness of 
life, and chivalry born of a profound Christian faith as might 
well last through our opening century. America can point with 
pride to its war, but what shall history make of that Era of 
Reconstruction? The most charitable will call it a huge blun- 
der, the most judicial an unpardonable folly, and the less re- 
served a national crime. The dire effects of it lasted and last 
through the lives of those who bore in their own persons the 
marks of its woes worse than war. The era as such may be 
historically pronounced a closed incident in 1876. In that 
year the troops were withdrawn from Louisiana; Hampton, 
the popular idol of South Carolina, was elected Governor ; the 
Hayes-Tilden controversy was settled peaceably when in other 
circumstances war might have ensued; and, as if to put a seal 
upon these factors of reconciliation, the Centennial of our 
National life was celebrated in the City of Brotherly Love. 

But what of the literary history of the South during these 
adverse years? Paradoxically, it was in some important re- 
spects the most prosperous. For instance, it would take seven 
full pages to catalogue the novels, plays, and narrative poems 
of the ten years from 1850 to i860. The older novelists werQ 
still at their tasks and new names were added annually. 

No fear of impending struggle prevented the hearty laugh- 
ter that greeted Baldwin, or Bagby, or even George Washing- 
ton Harris. Travel never was made more subservient to the 

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entertainment of others than in Madame LeVert's 'Souvenirs 
of Travel/ and the' whole world moved merrily. The great 
speakers were still present, many of them in the United States 
Senate, where their farewell addresses, such as those of Davis 
and Toombs, were epoch-making utterances. During the war 
there was of course relative stagnation in literary production, 
for men were then offering their country their lives, not their 
letters; but after the war there was occasion again for the 
oratorical powers of men like Hampton, Butler, Vance, Hill, 
and others of like high stature. Gradually men found their 
tongues again, after a period of silent suffering, and rubbed 
the rust from their unused pens. The lives of the heroes of 
battle must be told while facts were fresh in living memories. 
Biographies followed one another in rapid succession, written 
frequently with more of personal enthusiasm than critical 
aplomb, but filled with material of great import for the fuller 
realization of those troublous times. Biographies of modern 
heroes recalled older ones, and these too came in for their 
share of recognition in sketch and volume. From the lives of 
men to the incidents, tragic or comic, in which they had partici- 
pated was an easy step. More sketches and larger productions 
were devoted to these, now and then in the form of short 
story with bases of fact, more frequently the historical sketch, 
sometimes with polemic purport. As this desire to defend a 
cause for which men had given their lives clamored for fuller 
treatment, great treatises of permanent worth were sent forth 
by men fitted by experience to speak with authority ; or, if the 
spirit of romance prevailed, novels of war-time, with its grim 
humor and courageous suffering, were published. The most 
noticeable testimony of these novels is to the unexpected uni- 
fying power of this great struggle. The wide differences be- 
tween large areas, which through long years had grown more 
and more distinct, had led to disrespect and discourtesy, es- 
pecially in journalism and fiction ; the experiences of this pro- 
longed contest had not reconciled the differences but they had 
increased the respect of the combatants for one another. It 
is no longer the purpose of the novelists to exploit and estab- 
lish these differences but to reveal life softened frequently by 
the gradual coalescing of these distinct civilizations. But by 
far the most interesting fact of this period from 1850 to 1876 

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remains to be recorded, though for convenience the dates may 
be shifted a trifle. 

From the death of Poe (1849) to the death of Lanier 
(1881 ) reaches the fullest and finest period of poetry that the 
South has known. It is conceded, of course, that Poe sur- 
passes in many ways all other poets of the South, but Poe's 
forty-seven poems are too slight in volume and too separate in 
character to constitute a poetic period or movement. And while 
the South rightly claims him, since he claimed her, his poetrj' 
is more cosmopolitan than Southern. The poets that imme- 
diately succeeded him were primarily Southern and then swept 
into wider circles. Hayne and Timrod, Thompson and Hope, 
Mrs. Preston and Dr. Ticknor, were born between 1820 and 
1830; Father Ryan and James Ryder Randall in 1839, and 
Lanier in 1842. Their writings fall mainly between 1850 and 
1881, by which latter date Timrod, Ticknor, Thompson, Hope, 
and Lanier had passed away. Father Ryan and Hayne died in 
tlie later 'eighties, Mrs. Preston in 1897, and Randall, outliving 
them all, died in 1909. These statistics serve to group them 
together as contemporaries, and, better than that, in many 
cases personal friends. Had they lived within some smaller 
area, such as favored the New England poets, their work would 
doubtless have profited by mutual advice, encouragement, and 
criticism. Hayne and Timrod were Charlestonians ; Thomp- 
son, Hope, and Mrs. Preston, Virginians; Father Ryan was 
Virginian by birth and Alabamian by longer residence; while 
Ticknor and Lanier by birth, with Randall and Hayne by 
adoption, were Georgians. With this group of American poets 
no other group of a section or a period in America, save the 
great New England period, is comparable. Individually these 
poets have enjoyed appreciation, largely restricted, however, to 
their own land and too much to their own time ; but the general 
judgment of their place in American literature underrates their 
real deserts. Hayne 's love of the sea, which echoed in his 
soul, mingling with tlie vocal breezes in his Georgia pines and 
with the entrancing songs of his favorite birds, his gift of soft 
and liquid phrasing, his ear for music and his art sense, par- 
ticularly in the limits of the sonnet, commend him to lovers of 
man, nature, and music and, in spite of a certain thinness, 
due to the amount and the expanse of his poetry, rank him 

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high among our poets of art. To his friend Timrod, the gift 
of poesy came more directly from the Divine, and his use of 
the gift shows a more unerring feeling for its highest values. 
Of Hayne we know the very best he could do, but we suspect 
in Timrod resources of which he made no avail and powers 
he never exercised. His achievements, however, are enough 
to command the high esteem of our best lovers of poetry and to 
challenge the further study of the critics. His poem on the 
"Cotton Boll" merits comparison with Lanier's on "Corn," 
of which, after all, it may have been the forerunner. 

John Reuben Thompson, man of culture and of literary 
enthusiasms, who in a time of struggle gave his life to letters, 
has been too little known as a poet, but known by his best will 
be counted among that small body of men who devoted them- 
selves entirely to the things of the mind. James Barron Hope 
will come into larger and larger recognition, both because of 
his poetic thought in general and especially because of his 
occasional poems. While no individual poem of his quite 
equals the few very best occasional American, poems, no one 
of his brother poets ever was officially summoned to so many 
large occasions or responded with poems so ample and aspir- 
ing. That in their length they sometimes missed sustained ex- 
cellence is true, but that at other times they attained an ex- 
cellence of far more than transient value is likewise true. There 
are passages in each of these larger poems that might well be 
cherished for their intrinsic and lasting value. 

Among the limited number of American women who de- 
serve high rank as poets, Mrs. Preston's place is secure wher- 
ever she is known. Her background of culture and intellectual 
power, her sensitiveness and acute poetic insight, her catholicity 
and gracious art, reveal themselves in all of her poetry. There 
are poems that rise easily above the general level of her art, 
but none that fall far below it. Her touch was sure, her ear 
true, her judgment sound. Dr. Ticknor has had the good for- 
tune to be known widely by his one best poem, but the mis- 
fortune to have his other poems overlooked. While his busy 
life left no large spaces to be filled with poetic activities, he had 
the knack of finding in his daily practice themes for his chas- 
tened hand. Into his poetry go the kindliness, gentleness, and 

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human sympathy of his profession without its accompaniments 
of depression, gloom, and despair. Father Ryan and James 
Ryder Randall, born about the same time, have this in common 
that they were alike devoted to their Church and their country. 
If Father Ryan in his poetic ministrations seems more priestly 
than his colleague, Randall does not excel him in poems that 
have to do with earthly loves nor outstrip him in his fervid 
loyalty to a cause which he has sanctified with prayers and 
penances. Randall's fame, like Ticknor's, rests too much on a 
single poem, though he wrote many, while Ryan's depends not 
upon his single poems but on his loyalty as priest, patriot, and 
man, and on his peculiar skill in producing rhetorical and poeti- 
cal effects by some of the simpler devices of his art. By the 
use of repetition, parallelism, and refrain he varies his poems 
from the lilt of lighter music to the monotone melody of a 
haunting recitatif. 

Lanier was born after all these poets, but he outlived no 
more than a meagre majority of them. His place in the group 
may be questioned because his work fell after the war, and 
much of it after the horrors of the reconstruction period had 
been endured ; but he was a Southern soldier, subject like his 
greatest compeers to suffering from war, poverty, and disease, 
and like them bearing in his own bosom the penalties of his 
age and state. He was more fortunate, perhaps, than they in 
following his twin arts, music and poetry, away from the 
impoverishment and depression of his devastated home, but 
most fortunate in that these arts beckoned him onward and 
upward into the charmed realm where idealism reigns. How- 
ever, his idealism did not enjoin isolation, but rather the com- 
panionship of kindred spirits, nor separateness from the scenes 
of his earlier life, but rather the glorification of these as, 
softened by lapse of time, they haunted his memory and di- 
rected his inventive mind. His themes were therefore South- 
em and his handling of them characteristic of that overmaster- 
ing chivalry and purity which governed his life and his letters. 
In him was no bitterness nor hate, but a brotherly love as 
universal as his confidence in the All-Father was unlimited. 
Why, with the writing, should the name of Lee somehow link 
itself with Lanier unless it be that the rugged soldier, turning 

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from his spotless defeat, and the ragged poet, released from 
his galling imprisonment, both took up life in the same spirit 
of selfless chivalry and with the same fundamental faith that 
the "artist's price" as well as the patriot's was "some little good 
to man." The world came quickly to a keen appreciation and, 
in the main, a just judgment of Lanier's rare and unique 
poetry. Indeed, it was because his poetry was rare and dif- 
ferentiated from that of his contemporaries that English critics 
have most admired him, for to them Americanism, which they 
would commend, must consist of things un-English, things 
apart from the conventions that tend to become fixed. But 
Lanier need not be valued by his peculiarities. His merits are 
far other than mere vocal exercises or irregular line-lengths. 
He is a genuine poet in life and in soul, and if he fail at all in 
utterance it is not because he lacks knowledge or sense of form 
but because, "bent on no middle flight," he at times essayed 
poetic feats that dare failure. 

There was other poetry in this period, but we cannot now 
dwell on war-songs or on isolated poems, on women's tears 
congealed in verses or on men's daring thrown into metrical 
form. As a matter of fact, the songs and poems that came 
directly from the war were neither so numerous nor so meri- 
torious as a war so fraught with sentiment and so purified by 
patriotic sacrifice and undaunted idealism might have pro- 
duced. This would be strange were it not true that in the 
South the poets were bearing arms and found little time or 
taste for poetic employment amid the exacting tasks of camp 
life and of campaigning. 

From 1876 to this day we may name our Second National 
Period, and in full enjoyment of all its privileges and promises 
we are in a mood little suited to a critical estimate of its ac- 
complishments. With its opening there was an outburst of 
local-color and dialect stories, developing by stages into longer 
stories or into romances based on Colonial, Revolutionary, or 
modern history, or into novels of character delineating the 
suave, superstitious, and essentially humorous negro, the bold, 
rough-hewn, but substantially forceful mountaineer, the sen- 
sitive, delicate, and artistic Creole, with his love of all the 
pleasures of life and all the solaces of religion, and his para- 

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doxical adherence to France in his American loyalty. History 
enlarged its scope from dramatic incident of war to fuller and 
more accurate studies of the origin and growth of the several 
States, or of their organization into a Confederacy, with a gov- 
ernment less than four years old functioning in every part. 
These histories were based upon closer and calmer research, 
from which we may yet expect more valuable contributions to 
the knowledge of our Southern life. 

Akin to these historical studies are essays and treatises 
dealing with large and perplexing social problems, and tract- 
ates on education and on the expanding occupations of a 
resilient people. But propagandas in the South must still be 
carried forward by public speech. Oratory never has lost its 
charm for the warm-hearted Southern temperament, sensitive 
to the vibrant music of the resonant human voice, and schooled 
through generations in responsiveness to the uttered word. 
Older men, whose voices had been hushed by civil discord, took 
up again with noble courage the tasks of leadership and pleaded 
earnestly for a readjustment of inter-state relations so that 
the South might come back into her full partnership in civic 
pride and uses. Younger men, loyal to the South, and es- 
pecially to the heroes of their boyhood, but unwilling to be 
tethered by traditional sentiments that under changed condi- 
tions made all progress difficult, were no less earnest in assert- 
ing their rights and in proclaiming their faith that no sacrifice 
of Southern principle was demanded of the loyal American and 
that no disloyalty to the memories of the past was involved in 
adjusting one's self fully to the American citizenship of to-day. 
These men are apostles of education, because convinced of its 
necessary; of a virile and self-respecting citizenship trained to 
the duties and services of a complex century and of deter- 
mination to meet with all the strength the old South can give 
the problems that the new South cannot shirk. With all this 
there is the danger in this flood-tide of prosperity of crashing 
against the rock of a rooted materialism. In gaining all that 
the soul seems to desire we may lose the soul itself. Perhaps 
the most hopeful offset to this fear is in the persistent roman- 
ticism of our poets and in the fact that poetry still lives and 

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thrives. It may be pointed out that much of this poetry is not 
of primal excellence nor destined for long life, and that the 
poets seem to have suffered no profound experiences and to 
have beheld no visions blinding in their glory. But all this may 
be said of English and American poetry in general. On the 
other hand, there is much right feeling about nature, man, and 
God, and much heartiness in unabashed verse marked by 
grace, ease, smoothness, and a technique not due to chance but 
to knowledge. The present poets in the South are several 
score in number and are widely distributed, and there is not 
one that does despite to the higher life or proves untrue to his 
ideal of art. Poetry is used for purposes lowly but not low, 
for subjects that are trivial but never for trifling with things 
revered and sacred. In this lies a large hope, when coupled 
with the sound conservatism in morals and religion existing in 
a people more purely Anglo-Saxon than can be found else- 
where. Out of this sturdiness of moral fibre, this earnestness 
in material progress, this steadying faith in sane and saving 
idealism, and a fixedness in a higher faith in a holy religion, 
may grow a literature more significant than any yet produced, 
for these people love color and sound, live amid the odors of 
flowers, are given to emotion, revel in imagination, and have 
an art sense that does not mislead even when unschooled by 
laws and undisciplined by practice. 

The South need not be ashamed of her literary life, save as 
all Americans may rightly feel that in the majestic progress 
of our cotmtry we have not yet achieved the intellectual great- 
ness that may be destined for us ; on the contrary, she may well 
be proud of the cleanness and honesty of her printed page. Re- 
fined courtesy and gentle demeanor are its signs-manual, save 
where fidelity to the rugged and uncouth in the pioneer life 
has forced a certain rudeness of tone and coarseness of con- 
ception. But the South has her greatest opportunity now. Ed- 
ucational advantages are more common and more valuable 
to-day than ever before and more easily accessible. Wealth, 
or at least freedom from the taxing strain of the struggle for 
existence, is imminent, and the sense of self-reliance and self- 
appreciation, without which the highest ventures are not es- 
sayed and the highest endeavors fall short of full achieve- 

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ment, grows apace. It may be that the South shall attest 
again what Palestine and Greece and Italy and Spain have 
abundantly established: that literature finds fruitful soil in 
Southern lands and flourishes under the balmy influences of 
Southern skies. 

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THAT conservative Institution, the University of North Caro- 
lina, has in the course of its long life of more than one hundred 
and thirteen years, conferred the honorary degree of LL.D. upon only 
one woman — Mrs. Cornelia Phillips Spencer. This it did in 1895 in 
recognition, so the authorities declared, of her distinguished services 
and attainments. 

Cornelia. Ann Phillips, the youngest child and only daughter of 
James Phillips and Julia Vermeule, his wife, was born in Harlem, 
New York, March 20, 1825. The father, a younger son of a clergy- 
man of Cornwall, England, was educated at an English military 
school, and, after nine years* service as teacher in his native country, 
removed in 1818 to America, where for forty-nine years he continued 
actively engaged in the work of his profession. The mother, an 
American of Dutch descent, was a woman of refinement and culture, 
strong in the household virtues, and, in the words of one who knew 
her, "well educated and literary.*' In May, 1826, the parents with 
their three children, Charles, Samuel and Cornelia, moved to Chapel 
Hill, North Carolina, the father there entering upon his duties as 
professor of mathematics in the State University. The children were 
educated together, all three beginning their studies under their mother, 
and the sister later keeping abreast of her brothers in the classical 
course of the University by studying with them and under the instruc- 
tion of her father and other University professors. 

Each of the three was destined to be distinguished in after life. 
Charles Phillips, D.D., LL.D., followed in the footsteps of his father 
and was for more than a quarter of a century professor of mathema- 
tics in the University of North Carolina. In the history of that in- 
stitution by Dr. Kemp P. Battle his ability and usefulness are recorded. 
Samuel F. Phillips, LL.D,, became one of the ablest lawyers in North 
Carolina. He was for a number of years professor of law at his 
alma mater, and in the course of his distinguished career held, under 
the State, the positions of reporter, auditor, and Speaker of the House 
of Commons, and, under the United States for three successive ad- 
ministrations, the high office of Solicitor-general. 

In keenness of intellect, in force and vigor of understanding, and 
in scholarly attainments, Cornelia Phillips was no whit inferior to her 

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brothers. Nor have there been wanting able and conservative men 
and women to declare that in variety, versatility, and brilliancy of 
service she has surpassed them both. In 1853, ^^^ ^^^ happily mar- 
ried to James Magnus Spencer. With him she settled in Clinton, 
Alabama, where she remained until his death in 1861. Mr. Spencer 
was a lawyer, and is spoken of by Dr. Battle as "an alumnus of large 
brain and great force of character." After his death the widow, ac 
companied by her only child, Julia J. Spencer, returned to Chapel 
Hill, and there resided until 1894, when she moved to Cambridge, 
Massachusetts, whither the daughter had preceded her as the wife of 
Professor James Lee Love, of Harvard University. Mrs. Spencer 
died March 11, 1908. 

The thirty-three years of Mrs. Spencer's residence in North Caro- 
lina following her return to Chapel Hill, in 1861, were years of abund- 
ant usefulness. Her influence upon men and events in North Caro- 
lina during the critical period of the Civil War, and the yet more 
critical period that followed, was probably greater than that exer- 
cised by any other one man or woman of her generation. Governors, 
statesmen, judges, and university presidents have placed themselves 
on record as finding in her a wise and trusted counselor. The list of 
those who sought her advice, personally and by letter, is a long one, 
and includes nearly all the men of the period who were prominently 
identified with important public movements. Among these may be 
mentioned Governors Swain, Morehead, Graham, Vance, and Scales. 
Swain and Vance conferred with her throughout the trying period of 
war and reconstruction. Three University presidents in succession 
were wont to rely upon her for advice in matters relating to the wel- 
fare of the University and the cause of public education. It was at 
the solicitation of President Swain that she wrote many valuable his- 
torical sketches, more particularly her published volume. The Last 
Ninety Days of the War.' President Battle has repeatedly borne 
testimony to the great value of her services in effecting the restoration 
of the University in 1875. ^^' George T. Winston, who as student, 
professor, and president was indebted to her for help and inspiration, 
speaks of her as the "daughter of the old University and living gen- 
ius of the new" and, in a late address delivered at the dedication of 
a building named in her honor at the North Carolina State Normal 
and Industrial College, declares: "In the long list of brilliant and 
strong men who were graduated from the University in the genera- 
tions immediately preceding, during, and following the Civil War, 
there were few who were not influenced by her, either in their col- 
lege life or subsequent careers, and through them she contributed 
largely to shape the destinies of North Carolina." 

These are high tributes, and the number might easily be multiplied 

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far beyond the containing limits of this brief sketch. It is well that 
they and others have spoken, for otherwise we should know little of 
the wider field of influence exerted by this modest, unassuming gen- 
tlewoman. Hers has been no feverish struggle for public recognition, 
but the quiet, useful, happy life of the typical Southern house-mother. 
The same hand that penned burning words to the people of her be- 
loved State, calling upon them to rise with renewed hope and zeal 
amid the ruin of war and the ensuing spoliation of "carpetbag" mis- 
rule, was instant in good works among the helpless and the lowly. 
She shrank from any approach to publicity, and only from a strong 
sense of duty did she undertake a public service; even then her work 
was accomplished through others or through the unobtrusive agency 
of the pen. No one ever heard her deliver a public address nor was 
she ever seen to occupy a seat on any public rostrum. Her chief 
work, her greatest pleasure, was in the home. She was thus an em- 
bodiment of Paul's ideal — a woman well reported of for good works, 
having brought up children, lodged strangers, ministered to the saints, 
relieved the afflicted, and diligently followed every good work, "She 
has not," writes a member of her household, "welcomed the admis- 
sion of women to the Universities, nor has she ever manifested other 
than hostility to any movement tending to bring women into men's 
places in the world." 

Mrs. Spencer was a reader of the best literature, and while she 
never lost interest in current events and books she was fond of the 
Latin and Greek authors. Her favorite book, however, was the Bible. 
To its teachings her life was attuned, and from its inspired pages 
came her last message to the young women of the North Carolina 
State Normal College, that message being: "I will, therefore, that 
the young women marry, bear children, guide the home, and give no 
occasion to the adversary to speak reproachfully." 

Mrs. Spencer wrote much, but only a small part of her work has 
been published in enduring form. Her writings consist for the most 
part of letters and newspaper and magazine articles. For a number 
of years she was a regular contributor to the columns of The North 
Carolina Presbyterian, and her articles were the feature of the paper. 
It was her contributions to the North Carolina papers that kept alive 
the interest of the people in the University during the dark days of 
Reconstruction and that ultimately resulted in its re-opening in 1875. 
Many of her biographical and historical sketches appeared in The 
University Magazine. She is the author also of a number of patriotic 
lyrics and college songs. The hymn sung at the re-opening of the 
University was of her composing, as is also one of the songs in popu- 
lar use there to-day. A number of her songs were, we believe, pub- 
lished in pamphlet form about 1880. 

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Her works published in book form are The Last Ninety Days of 
the Civil War in North Carolina/ and 'First Steps in North Caro- 
lina History/ The first named appeared serially in The New York 
Watchman, then under the editorship of the Rev. Charles F. Deems. 
In 1866 it was issued in book form by the Watchman Publishing Com- 
pany of New York. The recent demand for the work has been such 
that last year it was reprinted serially in the Sunday editions of The 
Charlotte Observer. The 'First Steps In North Carolina History' ap- 
peared in 1889. It was designed for the use of elementary pupils in 
the public schools of North Carolina. For a number of years it has 
been on the adopted list of books used in the North Carolina schools, 
and it is to-day perhaps the best known and most popular work on the 
history of the State. It may be well to note here that this work in 
its published form is not what it was when it left the hands of its 
author. Mrs. Spencer wrote with her characteristic frankness and 
strength, but the publishers, without consulting her, saw fit to place 
the manuscript in the hands of a well known politician. He revised it 
in parts relating to war and politics, and in a modified and diluted 
form it was given to the public. A word from the preface will reveal 
Mrs. Spencer's patriotism and at the same time indicate her charac- 
teristic breadth of spirit: 

"Ours is the story of a quiet, contented, somewhat unambitious 
people, not studious of change, not easily provoked — a people loyal 
to Law and to Religion, steady, modest, sincere, and brave ; generous 
but not enterprising ; prodigal of their best when called upon by others 
or in defence of their own rights, but moving too slowly and cautious- 
ly when not under the strong stimulus of special occasions." 

Simple truth this, and had all Southern literature been character- 
ized by a like modesty and sincerity of statement it might, perhaps, 
have been less open to the charge of provincialism. 

On whatever subject Mrs. Spencer wrote she was sure to be inter- 
esting. Her biographical sketches were thoughtful studies displaying 
a penetrating analysis of character, an admirable insight into motives, 
and a sympathetic but just and conservative estimate of results. Her 
letters to the newspapers were models of animated writing— optim- 
istic, stimulating and wholesome, as the letters of cultured women are 
apt to be. Her simple songs were spirited and patriotic ; her reviews 
just, discriminating, and honest; and her histories true and graphic 
accounts of men, measures, and events. Her written work gives the 
general impression of being the fluent utterance of an acute and well 
stored mind. Her style is not bookish but simple, straightforward, 
and possessed of both dignity and strength. Not infrequently her 
pages are lightened by humor and, when the subject or the occasion 
demands it, ringing invective is not wanting. Charitable judgment, 

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a sincere admiration for all that is good, and a fearless condemnation 
of selfishness, corruption, and moral cowardice, pervade her writings. 
On the whole, they convey the impression of an author who has en- 
joyed the best society among men and books, and who, out of a full 
mind, writes with unselfishness, sincerity, and strength in the inter- 
ests of truth and of human good. 

^ .^. C^ 



Letters to the author from Professor James Lee Love of Cam- 
bridge, Massachusetts. 

History of the University of North Carolina, By K. P. Battle. 
Vol. L 

Sketches of the History of the University of North Carolina. By 
K. P. Battle. 

Our Living and Our Dead. Vol. 3, No. 5. November, 1875. 
Address delivered by W. H. Battle, at the reopening of the University, 


The University of North Carolina Record. New Series, Vol. i, 
Number 2. Addresses made at the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of the 
reopening of the University by Kemp P. Battle and George T. Wins- 

Sketch of Cornelia Phillips Spencer. By Mrs. George T. Winston. 
Biographical History of North Carolina. Vol. 3. 

An Address on Mrs. Cornelia Phillips Spencer by Dr. George T. 
Winston. State Normal Magazine, March, 1904. 

A Bibliography of the Historical Literature of North Carolina. 
By Stephen B. Weeks. 

University of North Carolina, Charter Centennial, 1889. 

Memoir of the Rev. Charles Phillips. By Richard H. Battle. 
North Carolina University Magazine. New Series, Vol. 10, No. i. 

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From 'The Last Ninety Days of the War.' 

So we endeavored to play out the play with dignity and 
self-possession, watching the long train of foragers coming in 
every day by every highroad and byway leading from the coun- 
try, laden with the substance of our friends and neighbors for 
many miles (though in many cases, let me say, the Government 
made payment for food and forage taken after peace was de- 
clared) watching them with such feelings as made us half 
ashamed of our own immunity, wondering where it would all 
end, and that we should have lived to see such a day ; reviewing 
the height from which we had fallen, and struggHng, I say, to 
wear a look of proud composure, when all our assumed stoicism 
and resignation was put to flight by the appearance on a certain 
day, of a squad of unarmed men in gray, dusty, and haggard, 
walking slowly along the road. A moment's look, a hasty 
inquiry, and 'Lee's men!'' burst from our lips, and tears from 
our eyes. There they were, the heroes of the army of Virginia, 
walking home, each with his pass in his pocket, and nothing 
else. To run after them, to call them in, to feel honored at 
shaking those rough hands, to spread the table for them, to cry 
over them, and say again and again, "God bless you all ; we are 
just as proud of you, and thank you just as much as if it had 
turned out differently" ; this was a work which stirred our in- 
most souls, and has left a tender memory which will outlast 
life. Day after day we saw them, sometimes in twos and 
threes, sometimes in little companies, making the best of their 
way toward their distant homes, penniless and dependent on 
wayside charity for their food, plodding along, while the blue 
jackets pranced gayly past on the best blood of Southern 
stables. But I am glad to record that wherever a Federal sol- 
dier met any of them, he was prompt to offer help and food, 
and express a kindly and soldierly cordiality. Grant's men, 
they all said, had been especially generous. There was some- 
thing worth studying in the air and expression of these men, 
a something which had a beneficial and soothing effect on the 
observers. They were not unduly cast down, nor had any ap- 
pearance of the humiliation that was burning into our souls. 


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They were serious, calm, and self-possessed. They said they 
were satisfied that all had been done that could be done, and 
they seemed to be sustained by the sense of duty done and well 
done, and the event left to God, and with His award, they had 
no intention of quarreling. It was a fair fight, they said, but 
the South had been starved out; one dark-eyed young South 
Carolinian said, for his part he was going home to settle down, 
and if any body ever said "secesh" to him again, he meant to 
knock 'em over ! Many looked thin and feeble ; and a gallant 
major from Fayetteville told me himself that when ordered to 
the last charge, he and his men, who had been living for some 
days on parched corn, were so weak that they reeled in their 
saddles. "But we v/ould have gone again," he added, "if Lee 
had said so.'* 

The news of the death of President Lincoln, received at first 
with utter incredulity, deepened the gloom and horrible uncer- 
tainty in which we lived. That he was dead simply may not 
have excited any regret among people who for four years had 
been learning to regard him as the prime agent in all our troub- 
les. But when the time, place, and manner of his death came 
to be told, an unaffected and deep horror and dismay filled our 
minds. The time has not yet come for Southern people to 
estimate President Lincoln fairly. We never could admire him 
as he appeared as a candidate for the Presidency, nor look 
upon him as a great man, in any sense of the word. But even 
if we had recognized him as a lofty and commanding genius, 
fit to guide the destiny of a great nation through a crisis of im- 
minent peril, the smoke of the battlefields would have obscured 
to us all his good qualities, and we should have regarded him 
only as the malignant star, whose ascendency boded nothing 
but evil to us. He was always presented to us in caricature. 
The Southern press never mentioned him but with some added 
sobriquet of contempt and hatred. His simplicity of character 
and kindliness of heart we knew nothing of ; nor would many 
now at the South, much as they may deplore his death, con- 
cede to him the possession of any such virtues. They judged 
him by the party which took possession of him after his inaug- 
uration, and by his advisers. But a sense of remorse fills my 
mind now as I write of him, realizing how much that was really 
good and guileless, and well-intentioned and generous, may 

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have come to an untimely end in the atnxrious tragedy at Ford's 
Theatre. The extravagance of eulogy by which the Northern 
people have sought to express their sense of his worth and of 
his loss, has had much to do with our unwillingness to judge 
him fairly. To place the Illinois lawyer by the side of Wash- 
ington would have been an offense against taste and common- 
sense; but to compare him to the Son of God, to ascribe to him 
also the work of "dying the just for the unjust/' is an impious 
indecency which may suit the latitude of Mr. Bancroft, and 
the overstrained tone of the Northern mind generally, but 
whose only effect at the South is to widen the distance between 
us and the day when we shall frankly endeavor to understand 
and do justice to President Lincoln. 


From 'The Latt Ninety Days of the War/ 

North Carolina had nothing to retract, nothing to unsay, 
no pardon to beg. She had acted deliberately in joining the 
Southern cause. She had given her whole strength to it, with 
no lukewarm adherence; and now, in the hour of acknowl- 
edged defeat and failure, she did not attempt to desert, or ab- 
jectly bespeak any favors for herself on the ground of her 
anti-secession record or proclivities. And when the negotia- 
tions were completed and peace was finally announced, it woidd 
not be difficult to say what feelings most predominated amongst 
us. We had desired peace — an end of bloodshed, and to the 
impending starvation of women and children. Peace we had 
longed and prayed for ; but not this peace. The reunion was 
not this reunion. With all her former attachment to the old 
Union — with all her incredulity as to the stability or possibility 
of a separate independent Confederacy of the Southern States, 
even in case of its triumphant establishment — ^with all her 
sober conservative principles — I will venture to say, that there 
were not five hundred decent men within the limits of North 
Carolina who could be found to rejoice in her military subju- 
gation, or who, under such circumstances, welcomed the re- 
appearance of the Star and Stripes as our national emblem. 
I have never yet seen one who did, or who was, at any rate 

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willing to avow it. At the same time, I must say, I have 
never seen one who evinced any intention of other than an 
honest acceptance of the situation, and a determination to do 
their whole duty and make the best of the inevitable. 

Looking back at our delusions, errors, and miscalculations 
for the four years of the war, the wonder is, that the Confed- 
eracy lasted as long as it did. The last six months of its ex- 
istence were indeed but mere outside show of seeming. That 
Richmond was doomed, was patent to all shrewd observers in 
the fall of 1864; and there was probably not a member of the 
Confederate Congress who did not know it when he took his 
seat at the beginning of its last session. It certainly reflects 
very little credit on the wisdom or patriotism of that body that 
they did not, before adjourning, take some steps in concert to 
notify their respective constituents of their opinion as to the 
situation, and give some indication of the course they judged 
their States should pursue. 

Respect for President Davis, who was well known to be 
extremely averse to any movement looking toward reconstruc- 
tion, and who refused to contemplate the event of our subju- 
gation as possible — due respect for him may have influenced 
the extraordinary reticence of our Congress; but it is more 
probable that an undue regard for their own political reputa- 
tion and influence was the prime object with most of them. 
Whatever it was, history will point with a dubious expression 
to our representatives, each nudging his neighbor and desiring 
him to go forward — all convinced of the hopelessness of the 
cause, yet almost no man bold enough to say so publicly. 

The Confederacy did not fail for want of genius to direct 
our military operations, nor for lack of the best qualities that 
go to make good soldiers in our armies, nor for lack of devo- 
tion and self-sacrifice among our people; for they who most 
doubted the wisdom of our policy or of our success gave as 
freely as the most sanguine. The history of the rise and fall 
of the Confederate currency will be a singularly interesting and 
instructive lesson if it should ever be honestly written. Its 
steady, unchecked decline but too surely marshaled us the way 
we were going, and in the successive stages of its destruction 
we may read as in a mirror the story of our own facile de- 

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From 'The Last Ninety Days of the War.' 

The benefits of the war in our State should not be over- 
looked in summing up even a slight record concerning it. It 
brought all classes nearer to each other. The rich and the 
poor met together. A common cause became a common bond 
of sympathy and kind feeling. Charity was more freely dis- 
pensed, pride of station was forgotten. The Supreme Court 
Judges and the ex-governors, whose sons had marched away 
in the ranks side by side with those of the day-laborer, felt a 
closer tie henceforth to their neighbor. When a whole village 
poured in and around one church building to hear the minis- 
ters of every denomination pray the parting prayers and in- 
voke the farewell blessings in unison on the village boys, there 
was little room for sectarian feeling. Christians of every name 
drew nearer to each other. People who wept, and prayed, and 
rejoiced together as we did for four years, learned to love each 
other more. The higher and nobler and more generous im- 
pulses of our nature were brought constantly into action, stimu- 
lated by the heroic endurance and splendid gallantry of our 
soldiers, and the general enthusiasm which prevailed among 
us. Heaven forbid we should forget the good which the war 
brought us, amid such incalculable evils; and Heaven forbid 
we should ever forget its lessons — industry, economy, ingenu- 
ity, patience, faith, charity, and above all, and finally, humility, 
and a firm resolve henceforth to let well enough alone. That 
North Carolina has within herself all the elements of a larger 
life and hope, and a more diffused prosperity than she has ever 
known, is not to be doubted by those who are acquainted with 
the wealth of her internal resources and the consummate 
honesty, industry, and resolution of her people. 

TIME will heal these wounds yet raw and bleeding; the 
tide of a new and nobler life will yet fill her veins and throb in 
all her pulses; and taught in the school of adversity the no- 
blest of all lessons, our people will rise from their present de- 
jection when their civil rights have been restored them, and 
with renewed hope in God will go on to do their whole duty 
as heretofore. 

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Silently Ihey will help to clear the wreck and right the ship; 
silently they will do their duty to the dead and to the living, 
and to those who shall come after them ; silently and with the 
modesty of all true heroism they will do great things, and leave 
it to others to publish them. Remarkable as North Carolinians 
have ever been for reticence and sobriety of speech and action, 
it is reserved for such epochs as those of May twentieth, 1776, 
and May twentieth, 1861^ and for such great conflicts as suc- 
ceeded them, to show what a fire can leap forth from this grave, 
impassive people — what a flame is kindled in generous sym- 
pathy, what ardor burns in defense of right and liberty. They 
are now to show the world what true and ennobling dignity 
may accompany defeat, surrender and submission. 

I close these slight and inadequate sketches of a memorable 
time with the words of my first sentence. The history of the 
great war is yet to be written, and can scarcely be fairly and 
impartially written by this generation. But it is our impera- 
tive duty to ourselves and to our dead to begin at once to lay 
up the costly material for the great work. Every man should 
contribute freely according to his ability, gold and silver, prec- 
ious stones, iron and wood ; and with this motive, I have ven- 
tured to present such an outline of events in the last ninety 
days as circumstances would permit me to gather. 


Written on the occasion of the Reopening of the University of North Caiolina, 
September 16»1875. 

Eternal Source of light and truth ! 
To Thee again our hearts we raise ; 
Except Thou build and keep the house. 
In vain the laborer spends his days. 

Without Thine aid, in vain our zeal 
Strives to rebuild the broken walls ; 
Vainly our sons invoke the Muse 
Among these sacred groves and halls. 

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From off Thine altar send a coal 
As burning seraphs erst have brought ; 
Relight the flames that once inspired 
The faithful teachers and the taught. 

Pour on our path th' unclouded light 
That from Thy constant favor springs ; 
Let heart and hand be strong beneath 
The shadow of Almighty wings. 

Recall, O Grod! the golden days; 
May rude unfruitful Discord cease, 
Our sons in crowds exulting throng 
These ancient haunts of white-robed Peace. 

So shall our upward way be fair 
As that our sainted fathers trod; 
Again the "Priest and Muse" declare 
The Holy Oracles of God. 

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[1857— ] 


FRANK LEBBY STANTON, poet and journalist, unquestionably, 
by the grace of genius, one of the most popular singers of the 
South, was born in Charleston, South Carolina, February 22, 1857, 
the son of Valentine and Catherine R. (Parry) Stanton. During 
his early childhood the family moved to Savannah, Georgia. In the 
war between the States his father was a soldier in the Confederate 
Army. Frank was sent to the public schools of the city, but at an 
early period developed a fondness for type-cases and printing- 
presses, and served his time as a printer's apprentice. Like many 
another bright American boy who in after life acquired distinction 
in literature and journalism, Frank received the larger part of his 
education at the "case," fitting himself by his own efforts to graduate 
in due time into the seductive world of journalism. Being an ambi- 
tious boy, with a talent for literary composition, he began his news- 
paper career on the Savannah Morning News, then edited by William 
Tappan Thompson, a noted editor of the old regime and author of 
that famous book of Southern humor, 'Major Jones's Courtship.' The 
late Joel Chandler Harris, the world-famous "Uncle Remus," was 
on the staflF of the News at the same time, already achieving a more 
than local reputation by his witty and pungent paragraphs. 

In 1887 Mr. Stanton moved to Smithville, in southwestern Geor- 
gia, where he married Miss Leona Jossey, and became the owner 
and editor of the Smithville News, doing also in great part the neces- 
sary mechanical work. Under his management and editorship this 
little country paper at once became one of the most noted weeklies 
in Georgia, for its racy editorials, its witty comment on current 
events, its sparkling humor, its graphic dialect verse and stories. 
This rare original matter was copied by the press throughout the 
South. Thus was laid the foundation for Mr. Stanton's present as- 
sured eminence as one of our most popular writers— certainly the 
South's foremost poet of the people. In 1888 he moved to Rome, 
Georgia, and became associated with the Honorable John Temple 
Graves on the Daily Tribune of that city; on that paper he did 
some of his best work. In 1889 he accepted a call from the man- 
agers of the Constitution of Atlanta ; and he has since then occupied 
a prominent position on its editorial staff. To this paper, during all 

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these years, Mr. Stanton has contributed an extraordinary amount 
of rich literary matter in prose and verse, brief essays, short stories, 
comical comments, negro and "cracker*' dialect verses, and frequently 
poems of exquisite quality. His fecundity as a writer is amazing, 
and, considering the great aggregate quantity of these effusions, their 
average merit is no less remarkable. 

Mr. Stanton's special feature on the editorial page is a column 
under the caption "Just From Georgia,'' which for years has been 
one of the most attractive departments of the Constitution. This 
column, with its wit and wisdom, its quaint sayings, its sunshiny 
humor, its perfect dialect, love-songs, and beautiful poems, furnishes 
the exchange editors in all parts of the country with a favorite and 
succulent pasturage for their omnivorous clipping-scissors. 

Mr. Stanton's pen is in demand for poetical contributions to lead- 
ing American magazines and illustrated weeklies, and has been fre- 
quently represented in prominent English periodicals. Personally, 
Mr. Stanton is courteous and amiable, an interesting talker, with a 
large fund of humorous anecdotes always at command He has a 
remarkably retentive memory, being able to quote at will, page 
after page from Shakespeare, and long extracts from other classic 
poets, English and American, He resides in a comfortable cottage 
in the west end of the city, not far from the charming home of 
his late distinguished friend, Joel Chandler Harris. His family con- 
sists of his wife and three lovely children, two boys and a girl. 
These are his "household gods" and to them he has dedicated many 
a sweet and tender lyric. Mrs. Stanton possesses fine literary taste, 
and recently has met with encouraging success as a public reader of 
her husband's poems. 

The musical tone of Mr. Stanton's verse, with its flowing meter 
and rhythm, appeals especially to musicians, and many of his poems 
have been set to music by well known composers. Mr. Stanton is an 
optimist, and the rosy hue of his mental and spiritual atmosphere is 
reflected in his art In his theory of life the darkest hour is always 
just before daybreak. Joy follows sorrow and glorifies its shadows. 
Life is, indeed, worth living, provided we live it in the sunshine of 
love, in an atmosphere of cheer and good will, in intercourse with 
kind hearts, in applauding as well as in doing generous deeds; we 
must have faith in the ultimate happiness of everybody, and have 
absolute confidence in the fact of the existence of a wise, bene- 
ficent, overruling Providence, as ideally expressed by Browning: 

"God's in his heaven, 

"All's right with the world." 

This, condensed into a paragraph, is the governing motif in Stan- 
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ton's art, the keynote to the music of his melodies, the deepest source 
of his inspiration in the best of his poems, when he conceives the 
higher themes, and brings into flower and fruit the lyric gift with 
which he is so liberally endowed He does not attempt the meta- 
physical, the philosophic, the epic, the pseudo-scientific, nor the stately 
measures of heroic blank verse. He is satisfied with homely themes, 
with household joys and sorrows, with the humorous or pathetic 
aspects of ordinary daily life, with things that touch the hearts of 
the common people. He plays with the feelings that respond either 
with heartsome laughter because of the comical realism of the pic-' 
ture he paints, or melt the soul with pity, because the poet pictures 
for us some of the frailties or afflictions to which mankind is sub- 
ject, doing this, sometimes, merely by a couplet or a stanza injected 
unexpectedly into his song, with the suddenness of a sunbeam shot 
through the clouds of an April shower. Of course, in the columns 
of the potpourri, made up of fun, wit, epigram, gossip, dialect, and 
sentimental verse, a measured quantity of which Mr. Stanton is re- 
quired to furnish day after day for the editorial page, there is a 
good deal that is ephemeral and of no literary value; but even amid 
this perfunctory dross the reader will frequently meet with the glit- 
ter of the pure gold of poetry and find some little gem which he 
will select for his scrapbook at home. 

It is in his serious work in its various forms, found between the 
covers of his books, that the value of Mr. Stanton as a poet must be 
judged — a judgment which will result in placing him among the fore- 
most of our living American minor poets. He has been aptly called 
the James Whitcomb Riley of the South. Like Mr. Riley he is a 
people's poet, appealing to the masses for the approval and acceptance 
of his work. Like Mr. Riley, Mr. Stanton is a master of dialect, 
although in this form he has an advantage over his brother in the 
West, the latter confining himself to the "Hoosier" dialect, whereas 
Mr. Stanton is a past-master in both "cracker" and negro dialect. 
Both of these gifted men reach excellence in their poems and songs 
for and about children. They express the grief and the joy, the 
dreams and desires, the whole beautiful life-world of childhood, in a 
way that proves that the power to conceive and to write a genuine 
child's poem is one of the surest tests for establishing a writer's 
claim to the title of poet. In this rare class Riley, Eugene Field, and 
Stanton occupy front places in America. Reference to Mr. Stanton's 
volume, 'Little Folks Down South' (Appleton's, 1904), will bear out 
this assertion. 

It cannot be claimed that Mr. Stanton's poetry is perfect in ar- 
tistic form. He has his mannerisms ; errs sometimes in his grammar ; 
uses words, figures, and phrases which have become shop-worn by 

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too frequent repetition; and manifests other occasional flaws and 
defects, usually due to hasty work and over-crowded production. The 
critic who stickles for the observance of the very letter of the classic 
canons of prosody, and who, with academic solemnity, applies to 
Stanton's verse the traditionary tape-line to measure its syllables, but 
shuts his heart against the sweet influence of the spirit throbbing and 
glowing within the lilting melodies — ^such a critic will find a number 
of really immaterial things to condemn in Stanton's poetic work. 
But we hold that what he lacks in artistic finish, in super-refinement 
of art, is more than counterbalanced by the exquisite tenderness, the 
direct appeal to the heart, the ethereal brightness of his songs, by the 
homely truthfulness, the reverent tone, the "touch of nature" which 
"makes the whole world kin" that characterize his serious poems, re- 
vealing him in his deepest moods. 

Joel Chandler Harris, in his introduction to Mr. Stanton's 
'Songs of the Soil,' pertinently says: "In a period that fairly reeks 
with the results of a sham culture, that is profoundly ignorant of the 
verities of life, and a sham philosophy that worships mere theories, 
it is surely something to find a singer breathing unceremoniously into 
Pan's pipes, and waking again the woodland echoes with snatches of 
song that ring true to the ear because they come straight from the 

Mr. Stanton loves Georgia, loves the South, its people, its homes, 
its history, its romance and traditions, its sunny skies, its lovely land- 
scapes — ^all that is beautiful to the eye and dear to the heart of the 
sons and daughters of this fair land, he loves with the ardor of a 
devoted and favored lover. He is on familiar terms with nature, and 
she keeps few of her divine secrets from him. He is her chosen in- 
terpreter in Georgia, and lives in sweet communion with her. When 
anything appeals to Stanton for poetic expression, he is able to 
respond immediately, spontaneously. For him to sing is 

"No more difficile 
Than for a blackbird 'tis to whistle." 

It is as natural for him to write poetry as it is for a bird to fly. 
Nature has taught him his art; her seasons in succession teach him 
knowledge; the birds bring him messages; every flower is a revela- 
tion of divinity. Every aspect of nature reflects itself in his imagina- 
tion; insistent voices call to him from sod and star, wooing him, 
compellng him, to dip his pen into his heart and write, and interpret 
for us the spirit and the meaning of the good, the true, and the 


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Songs of a Day. D. Appleton and Company, 1892. 
Songs of the Soil. D. Appleton and Company, 1894. 
Comes One With a Song. Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1898. 
Songs From Dixie Land. Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1900. 
Up From Georgia. D. Appleton and Company, 1902. 
Little Folks Down South. D. Appleton and Company, 1904. 


History of Southern Literature. By Carl Holliday. New York, 
Neale Publishing Company. 

National Encyclopedia of Biography, Vol. XI. 

Portrait. The Critic, Vol. 43, page 15. 

Review of Reviews. Vol. 30, page 759. 

Specimen Poems and Portrait. Current Literature. Vol. 34, page 


The South in History and Literature, By M. Rutherford. Atlan- 
ta, Georgia, Franklin-Turner Company. 

Review of 'Up From Georgia.' The Nation, Vol. 75, page 466. 

Reminiscences of Famous Georgians. By Lucian L. Knight. At- 
lanta, Georgia, Franklin-Turner Company. 


From 'Songs of the Soil.' Copyright, D. Appleton and Company, and used here bf 
permission of the publisbers. 

Jest a-wearyin' far you — 
All the time a-f eelin' blue ; 
Wishin' fer you — wonderin' when 
You'll be comin' home again; 
Restless — don't know what to do — 
Jest a-wearyin' fer you I 

Keep a-mopin' day by day: 
Dull — in everybody's way; 
Folks they smile an' pass along, 
Wonderin' what on earth is wrong; 
'T wouldn't help 'em if they knew — 
Jest a-wearyin' fer you ! 

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Room's so lonesome, with your chair 
Empty by the fireplace there 
Jest can't stand the sight o' it! 
Go out doors an' roam a bit: 
But the woods is lonesome, too, 
Jest a-wearyin' f er you 1 

Comes the wind with sounds that' jes' 
Like the rustlin' o' your dress; 
An' the dew on flower an' tree 
Tinkles like your steps to me! 
Violets, like your eyes so blue — 
Jest a-wearyin' f er you ! 

Mornin' comes, the birds awake 
(Them that sung so fer your sake!), 
But there's sadness in the notes 
That come thrillin' from their throats ! 
Seem to feel your absence, too— 
Jest a-wearyin' fer you. 

Evenin' comes: I miss you more 
When the dark is in the door; 
'Pears jest like you orter be 
There to open it fer me! 
— Latch goes tinklin' — ^thrills me through. 
Sets me wearyin' fer you! 

* * * Hi * * 

Jest a-wearyin' fer you — 
All the time a-f eelin' blue ! 
Wishin' fer you — ^wonderin' when 
You'll be comin' home again; 
Restless— don't know what to d< 
Jest a-wearyin' fer you 

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From 'Songs of the Soil.' 

It was in the town o' Waycross, not many weeks ago. 
They had a big revival there, as Hke enough you know ; 
An' though many was converted an' fer pardon made to call, 
Yet the Sunday mornin' love feast was the happiest time o' all ! 

'Twas a great experience meetin', an' it done me good to hear 
The brotherin an' the sisterin that talked religion there ; 
You didn't have to ax 'em, ner coax 'em with a song; 
Them people had religion, an' they told it right along ! 

Thar was one — a hard old sinner — 'pears like I knowed his 

But I reckon I've f ergot it — who to the altar came; 
An' he took the leader by the han', with beamin' face an' bright, 
An' said: "I'm comin' home, dear fren's; I'm comin' home 


Then a woman rose an' axed to be remembered in their 

prayers : 
"My husband's comin' home," said she, a-sheddin' thankful 

tears ; 
"I want you all to pray fer him; he's lived in sin's control, 
But I think the love o' Jesus is a-breakin' on his soul !" 

Any shoutin'? Well, I reckon so! One brother give a shout: 
Said he had so much religion he was 'bliged to let it out ! 
An' the preacher jined the chorus, say in' : "Brotherin, let 'er roll ! 
A man can't keep from shoutin' with religion in his soul!" 

I tell you, 'twas a happy time; I wished 'twould never end: 
Each sinner in the church that day had Jesus fer a friend; 
But a good old deacon said to 'em, while tears stood in his eye : 
"There's a better time 'an this, dear fren's, a-comin' by an' by !" 

I hope some day those brotherin'U meet with one accord 
In the higher, holier love feast, whose leader is the Lord; 
An' when this here life is over, with its sorrow an' its sighs. 
May the little church at Waycross jine the big church in the 
skies ! 

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From * Song:s of the Soil.* 

I wonder if the bells ring now, as in the days of old, 
From the solemn star-crowned tower with the glittering cross 

of gold; 
The tower that overlooks the sea whose shining bosom swells 
To the ringing and the singing of sweet Saint Michael's bells. 

I have heard them in the morning when the mists gloomed 

cold and gray 
O'er the distant walls of Sumter looking seaward from the bay, 
And at twilight I have listened to the musical farewells 
That came flying, sighing, dying from the sweet Saint 

Michael's bells. 

Great joy it was to hear them, for they sang sweet songs to me 
Where the sheltered ships rocked gently in the haven — ^safe 

from sea. 
And the captains and the sailors heard no more the ocean's 

But thanked God for home and loved ones and sweet Saint 

Michael's bells. 

They seemed to waft a welcome across the ocean's foam 

To all the lost and lonely : "Come home — come home — come 

Come home, where skies are brighter — ^where love still yearn- 
ing dwells !" 

So sang the bells in music — the sweet Saint Michael's bells ! 

They are ringing now as ever. But I know that not for me 
Shall the bells of sweet Saint Michael's ring welcome o'er the 

I have knelt within their shadows, where my heart still dreams 

and dwells. 
But I'll hear no more the music of sweet Saint Michael's bells. 

Oh, ring, sweet bells, forever, an echo in my breast 
Soft as a mother's voice that lulls a loved one into rest ! 
Ring welcome to the hearts at home — to me your sad farewells 
When I sleep the last sleep, dreaming of sweet Saint Michael's 


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From 'Comes One With a Song.* Copyright, Bobbs-Merrill Company, and used here 
by permission of the publishers. 

In the deep woods remote 

A sweeter minstrel dwells 
Than ever piped a morn or twilight note 

In all the song-swept dells. 

It is no voice that soars 

Unwearying to the blue; 
Transient — elusive— even while Love adores : 

A phantom of the dew ! 

A sense of silver bells 

Swayed by light winds — a thrill 
Keen as the leaf feels when the spring sap swells 

And sculptures it at will. 

And ere the lips can say 

A song hath been — aware 
Of mystery the soul hath lost its way — 

Doubting and dreaming there, 

As one in shadowed bowers 

Of Sleep may hear a strain 
Which haunts the memory in his waking hours, 

Nor makes its meaning plain. 

Soft as a ripple's plash 

Against the shore's shelled walls — 
O that the mystic melody would dash 

Down like the waterfalls! 

Yet all the wood is stirred 

From violet to pine ; 
And I have heard — ^and yet I have not heard 

A melody divine! 

Voice of the woodland thrush! 

Dewdrop of song, that fears 
The rustling of a leaf — a rose's blush, 

And dies when T.ove appears; 

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I lose myself in thee 

As one who, billow-tost 
And drowning, hears strange music in the sea, 

Lulled by the sound and . . . lost ! 


From 'Comes One With a Song.* 

After all, 
One country, brethren ! We must rise or fall 
With the Supreme Republic. We must be 
The makers of her immortality ; 

Her freedom, fame, 

Her glory or her shame — 
Liegemen to God and fathers of the free! 


After all- 
Hark ! from the heights the clear, strong, clarion call 
And the command imperious: "Stand forth, 
Sons of the south and brothers of the north! 

Stand forth and be 

As one on soil and sea — 
Your country's honor more than empire's worth!" 


After all, 
'Tis Freedom wears the loveliest coronal; 
Her brow is to the morning; in the sod 
She breathes the breath of patriots ; every clod 

Answers her call 

And rises like a wall 
Against the foes of liberty and God! 

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From 'Comes One With a Song.' 

In the white moonlight, where the willow waves, 
He halfway gallops among the graves — 
A tiny ghost in the gloom and gleam, 
Content to dwell where the dead men dream, 

But wary still : 

For they plot him ill: 

For the graveyard rabbit hath a charm 

(May Grod defend us!) to shield from harm! 

Over the shimmering slabs he goes-^ 
Every grave in the dark he knows; 
But his nest is hidden from human eye 
Where headstones broken on old graves lie. 

Wary still! 

For they plot him ill : 

For the graveyard rabbit, though skeptics scoff, 

Charmeth the witch and the wizard off! 

The black man creeps, when the night is dim. 

Fearful, still, on the track of him; 

Or fleetly follows the way he runs. 

For he heals the hurts of the conjured ones. 

Wary still ! 

For they plot him ill ; 

The soul's bewitched, that would find release. 

To the graveyard rabbit go for peace ! 

He holds their secret — ^he brings a boon 
Where winds moan wild in the dark o* the moon; 
And gold shall glitter and love smile sweet 
To whoever shall sever his furry feet! 

Wary still! 

For they plot him ill ; 

For the graveyard rabbit hath a charm 

(May God defend us!) to shield from harm! 

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Prom 'Comes One With a Soof.' 

Tell you, gran'mother's a queer one, shore^ 

Makes yer heart go pitty-pat ! 
If the wind jest happens to open a door. 
She'll say there's "a sign" in that ! 
An' if no one ain't in a rockin'-chair 
An' it rocks itself, she'll say: "Oh, dear! 

Oh, dear! Oh, my! 
I'm afeared 'at somebody is goin' to die I" 

An' she makes me cry — 

She makes me cry! 

Once wuz a owl 'at happened to light 

On our tall chimney-top, 
An' screamed and screamed in the dead o' night. 

An' nuthin' could make it stop ! 
An' gran'ma — she uncovered her head 
An' almos' frightened me out the bed : 

"Oh, dear! Oh, my! 
I'm certain 'at some one is goin' to die!" 

An' she made me cry — 

She made me cry! 

Jest let a cow lean over the gate 

An' bellow, an' gran'ma — she 
Will say her prayers, if it's soon or late. 

An' shake her fingers at me ! 
An' then, an' then you'll hear her say : 
"It's a sign w'en the cattle act that way I 

Oh, dear! Oh, my! 
I'm certain 'at somebody's goin' to dieT 

Oh, she makes me cry — 

She makes me cry! 

Skccriest person you ever seen! 

Always a-huntin' fer "signs"; 
Says it's "spirits" 'at's good, or mean, 

If the wind jest shakes the vines! 

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I always feel skeery w'en gran'ma's aroun' — 
An' think 'at I see things, an* jump at each soun' : 

"Oh, dear! Oh, my! 
I'm certain 'at somebody's goin' to die !" 

Oh, she makes me cry — 

She makes me cry! 


From 'Comes One With a Song.* 

They've named a cruiser "Dixie" — ^that's what the papers say — 
An' I hears they're goin' to man her with the boys that wore 

the gray; 
Good news ! It sorter thrills me and makes me want to be 
Whar the band is play in' "Dixie" an' the "Dixie" puts to sea. 

They've named a cruiser "Dixie," an', fellers, I'll be boun' 
You're goin' to see some fightin' when the "Dixie" swings 

eroun' I 
Ef any o' them Spanish ships'U strike her east or west. 
Jest let the ban' play "Dixie" an' the boys'll do the rest! 

I want to see that "Dixie" — I want to take my stan' 
On the deck of her, an' holler: "Three cheers for Dixie lanM" 
She means we're all united — ^the war hurts healed away, 
An' "Way Down South in Dixie" is national to-day! 

I bet she's a good 'un! I'll stake my last red cent 
Thar ain't no better timber in the whole blamed settlement ! 
An' all their shiny battleships beside that ship are tame, 
Per, when it comes to "Dixie," thar's somethin' in a name! 

Here's three cheers an' a tiger — ^as hearty as kin be. 
An' let the ban' play "Dixie" when the "Dixie" puts to sea! 
She'll make her way an' win the day from shinin' east to west- 
Jest let the ban' play "Dixie" an' the boys'll do the rest! 

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From * Songs From Dixie Land.' Copyright, Bobbs-Merrill Company, and oied liere by 
permiaaion of the publishers. 

All dat I got on de whole plantation, 
All dat I love in de whole creation — 
In de roun', green worl', or de big blue skies, 
Is a fat li'r feller wid his mammy's eyes — 
LiT feller wid his mammy's eyes! 

He play in de san', en he roll in de clover, 
He watch fer me w'en de day wuck over; 
He look so cunnin', en he look so wise — 
Dat fat liT feller wid his mammy's eyes — 
Li'l* feller wid his mammy's eyes! 

Fur ways off he kin see en know me, 
En I h'ist 'im up on de mule befo' me ; 
En I rides 'im home, en his mammy s'prise 
At dat fat li'l' feller wid his mammy's eyes — 
Li'l' feller wid his mammy's eyes! 

He's got sich ways en tricks erbout 'im, 
I knows dat I can't git 'long widout 'im; 
En I thanks de Lawd, in de big blue skies, 
Fer dat fat li'l' feller wid his mammy's eyes — 
LiT feller wid his mammy's eyes! 


From ' Songs From Dixie Land.' 

Sweetes' li'l' feller— 

Everybody knows; 
Dunno what ter call 'im. 

But he mighty lak' a rose! 

Lookin' at his mammy 
Wid eyes so shiny-blue, 

Mek' you think dat heaven 
Is comin' clost ter you! 

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Wen he's dar a-sleepin' 

In his li'r place, 
Think I see de angels 

Lookin' thoo' de lace. 

Wen de dark is fallin* — 

Wen de shadders creep, 
Den dey comes on tip^toe 

Ter kiss 'im in his sleep. 

Sweetes' IVV feller— 

Everybody knows; 
Dunno what ter call 'im. 

But he mighty lak' a rose I 


From 'Songs From Dixie Land.' 

Ay, come in, if you will — ^you froth of the frenzied night ! 
I shall wreak the rage of my soul as I trample your crest of 

Trample you — ^trample you down, as the world has trampled 

me — 
Come in, you wraiths of the clouds — ^you ghosts of the hills 

and seat 

Rattle the icy panes where the sleet-drop pelts and reels — 
Wind that bites the beggar — sl baying hound at his heels ! 
Ay, come in to this icy hearth, where the fires of life arc dim, 
And rock the roof and the casement with the howl of your 
hated h)rmn! 

Ne'er knock at a beggar's door — O Spirit of Storm and Night ! 
Hurl your thunders against it and beat it down with your 

might ! 
Never a right hath a beggar — no word at court shall he win : 
Down with the doors, I charge you! let the wolves come 

snarling in 

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The beggars crouch by the casements, and the saintly souls 

condemn : 
They cry to the Lord for shelter, and He sends His storms 

on them; 
A curse on a beggar's crying — a curse on his homeless head ! 
And preach of a far Christ dying for these that their hands 

strike dead I 

I dare the worst! I am one with the wind and snow and 

dashing sleet — 
Enemies they ; but I mock them, and fearless their fury meet. 
Have they not hounded me far? and when that I groaned in 

Did they ever cease for mercy? The pang and the prayer 

were vain! 

The world shall slay a man when he dreams that the gods 

have given 
The unspeakable fire to his soul: they shall slay him in sight 

of heaven! 
They shall grind him down as they grind the stones — beaten, 

driven and led, 
They shall give him rags for his shivering bones — b, crust 

when he cries for bread! 

There was a song in my soul— of Right in a world of Wrong ; 
And sweet to me was the singing, though the tears fell with 

the song; 
Sweet as the sound of harbor bells that sing to the ships at 

sea — 
As the dew is to the clover — ^as the bloom is to the bee. 

And I sang for the joy of singing — not for the crown of years : 
And there was peace in the pain for me, and there was light 

in the tears ; 
For a spirit came in a dream and whispered the hidden thing; 
And the stars streamed down in splendor, and I heard the 

Morning sing! 

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And Love came from the copses — ^Love in his April-youth ; 
And I sang his praise in the cities, and crowned his brow with 

And ever a rainbow shone for me over the storm and strife, 
And I saw the light in the darkness, and garlanded Death 

with Life. 

I gave my tears and my prayers, and the voice of my soul; 

and lo! 
My answer conies in the beggar's den — in the pitiless pelting 

snow — 
In the roar of the icy winds that envy the feeble flame 
That flickers here in the ashes where I trace the Spirit's name ! 

Come in, O Ghosts of the Night! Knock not, O Wind, at 

my door! 
Batter the barrier down and shake the roof with your roar! 
What right — what wrong hath a beggar? No favor at court 

he'll win : 
Enter — all foes and hatreds ! let the wolves come snarling in ! 

And this is the end of all . . . of the toiling and the tears! 
But I face the last undaunted; and reck not of the years; 
Is the love of the world a lie, as the gold of the world is dross? 
The bells are ringing the Christ in. . . . Come on — come with 
the Cross ! 


From 'Up From Georgia.' Copyright, D. Appleton and Companyp and used here by 
permission of the author and the publishers. 

Don't want no moon, en not one match 
Fer ter light my way ter de melon patch; 

Night or day 

(Dat what I say!) 
I kin shet my eye en fin* my way ! 

De road ez white ez a streak er light; 

But I takes de path whar de san' ain't bright i 

Kaze de white man wait 

By de shotgun gate, 
Fer ter blow me clean 'cross Georgy state ! 

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So, take yo' moon, en keep yo' match; 
I knows my way ter de melon patch ! 

Night or day 

Whilst you watch en pray, 
I shets my eye en I fin's my way! 


From 'Little Folks Down Sooth.' 

Mis'ry Jinkins ! — ^Whar she at ? 

Ketch her arm, en shake her! 
Come here, on dem foots so flat — 
Rise up, en spell "Baker!" 
"B-a, ba— 
(Ain't dat de way?) 
K-e-r, ker, baker!" 

(Sence she spell 

Dat word so well 

Head de class I'll make herl)] 

Knock-knee Jinkins! — Whar he at? 

Come out dar, en blossom ! 
Hit you on dat head so flat 
Ef you don't spell "Possum!*' 

(Dunno de res'!") 
Well, ril give you sorrer 
'Less you go 
Whar 'possum grow, 
En ketch me one termorrer ! 

All tergedder now in class — 

Ever' li*r sinner ! 
Don't you let de nex' word pass! — 
Rise up, en spell "Dinner!" 

"D-i-n— " 

Dis here ain't no funnin' — 

Dar dey go! 

En lightnin' sho' 
Can't beat dem chillun runnin'!)' 

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From 'Little Folks Down South.* Copyright, D. Appleton and Company and uied here 
by permission of the publishers. 

Wish I could get back to-day 
To the meadowy fields of May 
Where we went the shadowy way 

To the river; 
Where a little world of joys 
Blossomed round the barefoot boys 
As they went with jocund noise 

To the river. 

Splash ! Splash ! 
The wavelets dash, 
And the splintered sunbeams flash 
Where the maples 

Used to quiver 
On the cool road 

To the river! 

Wish I could get back to-day 
Where the mosses trailed in gray 
And the lilies felt the spray 

Of the river ; 
Where, above its banks of green, 
Well I loved to loll and lean 
In the shadow and the sheen 

Of the river. 

Splash ! Splash ! 
The wavelets dash, 
And the splintered sunbeams flash 
Where the oak leaves 

Used to quiver 
On the cool banks 

Of the river. 

Wish I could get back to-day! 
But the gold has left the gray; 
Lx)ng the winter, brief the May, 
And th^ river 

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With its gloom and with its gleams. 
Where life's dying sunset streams, 
Ripples through an old man's dreams 
Faintly ever. 


From 'Comes One With a Song/ 

This world that we're a-livin' in 
Is mighty hard to beat; 

You git a thorn with every rose. 
But ain't the roses sweet! 


"What of the Night, O Watchman, are the shadows fast in 

And the watchman cries: "O dreamer, the broad hills blaze 

with light! 
The valley its voice has lifted, the color takes the clod. 
And the harvest song rings clear and strong where the great 

fields smile to God.'* 


Light all the loved land blesses : Autumn a garland weaves, 
And with her glimmering tresses the reapers bind the sheaves ; 
The grainy fields a-glitter, as if, where the life-line runs, 
God scattered the gold of the stars there, and the silver of 
the suns. 


O fields, where the skies rain manna! where the fervid sum- 
mers shed. 

Bum beauty in the bloom, and change the wind-waved blades 
to bread ! 

You are reading now the story of Toil in the lavish land. 

And the seed that dreamed of the harvest, low in its cell of 

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Ye knew the travail of heaven — the storm, with its thunder 

Of clouds, o'er the red stars driven: ye have thirsted for the 

When the seven-fold furnace-fires of the Sun came blinding- 

And the rose was a-flame, and the lily, only ashes of light ! 


Ye heard, in the midnight stillness, the murmur of hill and glen; 
The world-winds wafted to you the voice of the dreams of 

Ye heard the steps of the Morning— echoes of sweet prayers 

In the holiest hush of Heaven — ^''Give us our daily bread!" 


And ye answered, in the harvest — ^in the breath of all your 

blooms — 
In a voice of low, sweet music — in the waving of bright 

plumes ; 
As ye received from heaven, so did ye ever give: 
Your raiment to the needy — ^your life, that a world might live ! 

But lo, your golden guerdon ! — It blossoms in sweetest dreams : 
In the whirr of the wheels, fleece-freighted — ^in the deep, 

barque-burdened streams; 
In flame-lit cots and cabins, where joy in the light's impearled 
And the Iambs of the fold are sheltered from the dread wolves 

of the world. 


Your fame, far-flown o er the waters, to the fettered and the 
free — 

In the shouting of the captains — in the deep song of the sea ; 

A song of the sea-winds echoed from far Atlantic strands. 

As the brave barques cleave the billows, with joy for the wait- 
ing lands. 

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Sing me no song of battles— of guns and glittering shields: 
Sing me the soil's song — Poet — the Marseillaise of the Fields! 
There wave your Freedom-banners — ^there stand the bright 

Life in their glistening columns — ^Liberty in their blades! 


Hear what the Soil sings to you — ^bome on the inland gales: 
"Ye bind the high heaven's blessings as ye bind my sheaves 

and bales: 
I answered the toil of the human, where the plowshare clave 

the sod, 
And the labor of mute millions — ^the dumb brutes, serving God ! 


"O'er the naked world the splendor of my raiment I have 

The City's firm foundations are strong in my strength alone; 
For me ascend to heaven the Temple's thunder-strains — 
The litany of my lilies, the paean of my pkins ! 

"My sons, they bear me witness from ample east to west; 
They stand in the courts of Kingdoms, who knew my mother- 
breast ; 
But for food and raiment, would ye build your towers strong ? 
Your seas were shipless deserts, your cities, a dreamer's song !" 


Thanks for the Soil's brave lesson! Where the humblest 
daisies nod, 

Each breath is praise, all perfect — each bloom is a Thought 
of God! 

And the world shall wear a garland of the Harvests' gold 
and white, 

Till toil is done, and the reapers shall sing Life's last "Good- 

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TJENRY T. STANTON was born in Alexandria, Virginia, on 
-■• •* June 30, 1834. His father, Richard H. Stanton, a native Alex- 
andrian, was the son of Richard Stanton, a Virginian by birth and 
of English descent. The grandfather was a soldier of the War of 
1812, but moved later in life to Memphis, where he died in 1846. 
The father, Richard H. Stanton, was educated at Hallowell Academy 
in Alexandria, and in pursuance of his choice of a profession, read 
law. In 1833 ^^ married Miss Asenath Throop, the daughter of the 
Rev. P. Throop, a minister in the Methodist Church. In 1834 a 
son, Henry T., was born to them, and in the next y^ar the small 
family moved to Kentucky, where many good Virginians go. Dr. 
Broadus used to call Kentucky an edition de luxe of Virginia. Rich- 
ard H. Stanton edited the Maysville Monitor until 1841, when he 
saw his way clear to devote himself exclusively to the law. To be a 
lawyer and a Virginian presaged a political career, upon which he 
entered in 1849 as a member of the House of Representatives. He 
was returned several times, and during a part of his career had the 
pleasure of serving with his brother, who represented a Tennessee 
district He served his county as Commonwealth Attorney and his 
State as Circuit Judge, being recognized by his legal writings as an 
authority of weight. 

Henry T. Stanton was educated in the Maysville Seminary, where 
before him had been trained Ulysses S. Grant, William N. Halde- 
man, and other well-known men. He studied also at La Grange and 
at Shelby colleges, and became a West Point Cadet in 1849, the year 
his father went to Congress. For some reason he left in 1851 and 
accepted an unimportant government position under James Guthrie, 
another Kentuckian of Virginia lineage. In 1855 he followed his 
father's footsteps by becoming editor of a Maysville paper. The 
Express, and also by studying law. In 1856 he joined his father in 
the practice of law, continuing until i860, when he went to Memphis. 
Tennessee, to find a larger field; but he was immediately recalled 
by the war alarm. He came back to Kentucky, raised a company, 
and with it joined General John S. Williams. Serving as Adjutant- 
general with this officer until 1864, he later occupied a similar posi- 

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. tion successively with Generals Morgan, Breckinridge and Echols, 
receiving his parole on May i, 1865, in Greensboro, North Carolina. 
Of his gallant service throughout the entire war and in uncounted 
engagements, numerous reports, official and private, are current. 
Returning to Maysville with the retiring rank of major, he com- 
bined the employments of practitioner of the law and editor of the 
Maysville Bulletin, In 1870 he moved to Frankfort as State officer, 
and remained as editor of the Frankfort Yeoman from 1876 to its 
suspension in 1886. It was by his editorial work on this paper that 
he increased his reputation for scholarly form and peculiar aptitude 
of expression. 

Later he moved to Louisville, Kentucky, but returned to Frank- 
fort in 1897, and after a period of broken health passed away with- 
out pain on May 9, 1899. 

In 1856, when he joined his father in the practice of law, he 
married Martha R. Lindsay, and this union was blessed with nine 
children, all of whom were living in 1896 when Colonel J. Stoddard 
Johnston wrote, for the 'Memorial History of Louisville,' the sketch 
to which the author of this meager story is indebted for his facts. 
It is not by his gallant services as a soldier, his loyalty as a Demo- 
crat or his virility as an editor that Major Stanton lives, but by his 
poetry, which made him known as the Poet Laureate of Kentucky. 

His mother, a lady endowed with unusual gifts, had transmitted 
to her son her intellectual powers, and had impressed his plastic 
mind with her own cultivated taste and her love of poetry. He 
began writing verse early, and so mastered the simple laws of his 
art as to avoid, within his limited scope, all errors of technique and 
blemishes of inartistic form. His most famous poem, "The Money- 
less Man," was among his earliest, and established the fact that his 
poetic gift was rather a permanent possession than a developing 

In 1871 he collected his poems, fifty-four in number, into a small 
volume entitled The Moneyless Man, and Other Poems.' In 1875 
he issued a smaller volume, *J^co^ Brown, and Other Poems.' In 
the very brief preface to this small volume he states rather than 
defends his view that humor is the most desirable quality of verse. 
In 1900 some friends prepared a little volume called 'Poems of the 
Confederacy.' This volume contains but one poem not contained in 
the other volumes, namely, "Heroic Sleep," delivered at the unveiling 
of a Confederate Monument in Chicago, in May, 1895. 

"The poetry of Major Stanton," wrote Colonel Johnston, "is 
characterized by a faultlessness of measure and a smoothness of 
rhythm combined with vigor of thought and strength of expression. 
His versatility has a wide range, his poems embracing all subjects. 

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from the discussion of grave problems to most humorous incidents. 
He is a true son of Nature, and never sings more sweetly than in 
his bird songs and communings with the trees and fields and flowers. 
No one is readier as the writer of impromptu verse, and an epigram 
or acrostic comes as readily from his pen as water from a per- 
ennial spring. By universal accord he has worn for many years the 
title of Poet Laureate of Kentucky, and has, without fee or re'ward, 
filled the honorary part, without challenge or competition." 



From 'The Moneyless Man, and Other Poema^' 

Is there no secret place on the face of the earth 
Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth? 
Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave. 
When the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive? 
Is there no place at all, where a knock from the poor 
Will bring a kind angel to open the door ? 
Ah, search the wide world wherever you can, 
There is no open door for a Moneyless Man! 

Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light 
Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night. 
Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy fold 
Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold, 
And the mirrors of silver take up, and renew, 
In long lighted vistas the 'wildering view : 
Go there! at the banquet, and find if you can, 
A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man! 

Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire. 
Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire, 
Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within, 
And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin; 

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Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and the great 
In the pomp and the pride of their worldly estate; 
Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can, 
Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man. 

Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has told 
His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold; 
Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor, 
Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore ! 
Walk up to their counters — ah, there you may stay 
'Til your limbs grow old, 'til your hairs grow gray, 
And you'll find at the Banks not one of the clan 
With money to lend to a Moneyless Man ! 

Go, look to yon Judge, in his dark-flowing gown, 
With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down ; 
Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong. 
And punishes right whilst he justifies wrong; 
Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid, 
To render a verdict — they've already made; 
Go there, in the court-room, and find, if you can, 
Any law for the cause of a Moneyless Man! 

Then go to your hovel — ^no raven has fed 

The wife who has suffered too long for her bread; 

Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death-frost 

From the lips of the angel your poverty lost ; 

Then turn in your agony upward to God, 

And bless, while it smites you, the chastening rod, 

And you'll find, at the end of your life's little span, 

There's a welcome above for a Moneyless Man! 

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From 'The Moneyless Man, and Other Poems^' 

Just by the road we are journeying fast, 

Down to the Lake of Tears, 
A blind old man has tottered at last, 
Out of the Present into the Past, 

Over the brink of years. 

What were his virtues, what were his crimes, 

Nobody cares to-day; 
Once he was ours — now he is Time's — 
For lives are but as murmuring chimes. 

Coming and going away. 

Up on the hill there's a patter of feet — 

A voice in the flowers wild ; 
Carelessly down to the busy street, 
Many to pass, and many to meet. 

Rambles a little child. 

This IS "the dead man's son and heir** 

Coming along the road; 
He gathers the lightest treasures there, 
The violet bloom and crocus fair, 

Bearing a childish load. 

Soon he will be in the hurrying crowd, 

Pushing his way ahead — 
Some of them broken — some of them bowed. 
Some for the altar and some for the shroud. 

Some who are leading and led. 

Soon on the way to the Lake of Tears, 

The little one's feet must go ; 
For thorns are thick in the path of years. 
And the way to death is a way of fears, 

All down to the silent flow. 

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Prom 'The Moneyleti Man, and Other Poemai* 

A soldier lay on the frozen ground, 
With only a blanket tightened around 

His weary and wasted frame; 
Down at his feet, the fitful light 
Of fading coals in the freezing night 
Fell as a mockery on the sight, 

A heatless, purple flame. 

All day long, with his heavy load, 
Weary and sore, in the mountain road. 

And over the desolate plain; 
All day long, through the crusted mud. 
Over the snow, and through the flood, 
Marking his way with a track of blood 

He followed the winding train. 

Nothing to eat at the bivouac 

But a frozen crust in his haversack—* 

The half of a comrade's store — 
A crust, that, after a longer fast. 
Some pampered spaniel might have passed, 
Knowing that morsel to be the last 

That lay at his master's door. 

No other sound on his slumber fell 
Than the lonesome tread of the sentinel- 
That equal, measured pace — 
And the wind that came from the cracking pine. 
And the dying oak, and the swinging vine, 
In many a weary, weary line. 
To his pale and hollow face. 

But the soldier slept, and his dreams were bright 
As the rosy glow of his bridal-night, 
With the angel on his breast; 

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For he passed away from the wintry gloom 
To the softened light of a distant room, 
Where a cat sat purring upon the loom, 
And his weary heart was blest. 

His children came, two blue-eyed girls, 
With laughing lips and sunny curls, 

And cheeks of ruddy glow; 
And the mother pale, but lovely now, 
As when, upon her virgin brow 
He proudly sealed his early vow, 

In simimer, long ago. 

But the reveille wild, in the morning gray, 
Startled the beautiful vision away, 

As a frightened bird in the night ; 
And it seemed to the soldier's misty brain 
But the shrill tattoo that sounded again. 
And he turned with a dull, uneasy pain. 

To the camp-fire's dying light. 


From 'The Moneyless Man, and Other Poems.' 

Bring me a coal for my old clay pipe — 
A coal that is glowing and red. 
And draw up my chair 
To the fireside there, 
And hasten the children to bed: 
We haye finished our task and finished our tea, 
And the evening prayer is said. 

Now place at the hearth a faggot or two, 
And carry the kettle away ; 
Fm thinking, my wife. 
Of the pleasure in life 
We have known this many a day ; 
For our hearts are warm and our spirits young. 
Though our heads be turning gray. 

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Ah, now you look, with your knitting, there, 
So cheerful and pleasant, my dear 
That I feel, full well. 
My old heart swell 
As it did in its bridal gear. 
And I know it throbs as faithful still 
In the Autumn-time that's here. 

Come back with me to the early day, 
The Spring of our tender love, 
When a fair young bride, 
At the altar-side. 
Looked up to the Heaven above. 
And Grod was nigh, and His summer wind 
Sang joyous in the grove. 

Our fathers were there, our mothers too— 
We cherish the blessings they gave; 
And tears must fall 
To know they're all 
In the cold and silent grave, 
Where the slow years pass 
In the dropping glass. 
And willows o'er them wave. 

But all of us die, and day by day 
We pillow each other to sleep. 
And the tears may rise 
To our saddened eyes 
From the heart in its sorrow deep; 
But God hath an eye to the sparrow's fall, 
And the humblest soul will keep. 

For two score years we have kept our faith, 
And true to our earliest tryst, 
We have found the goal 
Of a quiet soul. 
That many a heart hath missed, 
And many a spirit hath wandered away 
To the tones we would not list. 

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Ah, wife, I feel my old blood course 
And tingle away in my veins. 
When I think how true 
Both I and you, 
Together, have guided the reins, 
With nothing on earth to mar our love, 
And fret and bother our brains. 

And here we sit, on this Winter night, 
A cozy and happy old pair. 
And loving as true 
As we used to do 
When I was young and you were fair. 
And the silver thread from the loom of years 
Came not in your raven hair. 

I shake the coal from my old clay pipe. 
For now it is blackened and dead, 
And the faggot gone, 
And the fire wan, 
And the lamp-wick nearly fled. 
And the clock, with a nervous stroke, says ten. 
And it's time to go to bed ! 


From 'The Moneyless Man, and Other Poems.' 

When a bugle-note rang in the quivering trees, 

And a drum beat the nation to arms, 
Our people came up from the shore of the seas, 

And away from their blue-mountain farms ; 
All stalwart and strong as the hardy old pines, 

Or the wave-breaking rocks of the shore. 
They came in their long gleaming columns and lines, 

Till the bugle-note sounded no more. 
There are hearts in the ranks, as light as the foam; 

There are those of a gloomier brow; 
And some who have left but a mother at home, 

With her little boy guiding the plow. 

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There are silver-haired men, the tide in their veins 

Leaping down the red alleys of youth, 
All fresh as the water-fall thrown to the plains, 

And as pure as the beautiful truth; 
There are sons, too, and sires — ^the old and the young — 

In the midnight and morning of life. 
Who came from the hills and the valleys among. 

To be first in the glorious strife ; 
And many, how many beneath the blue dome, 

Are bending in solitude now, 
To plead for the weal of a mother at home, 

And her little boy guiding the plow ! 

Oh, the pang of his heart, and the keenest of all 

That a wandering father may know. 
Is the vision of home with its agony-call, 

Its hunger and shivering woe; 
And who would not chafe in the sacredest chain 

At a memory bitter as this. 
Though he knew in his heart that each moment of pain 

Would but hallow his future to bliss? 
And who would not weep in a vision of gloom. 

When the Evil One whispered him how 
The toil grew apace to the mother at home, 

And her little boy guiding the plow ? 

But courage, keep courage, oh, parent away! 

Be noble, and faithful, and brave ! 
And the midnight shall pass, and the glorious day 

Shall be shed ever tyranny's grave! 
Though a desolate thing is a fenceless farm. 

And as dreary, a furrowless field. 
Still, God in his mercy shall strengthen the arm 

Of the little boy asking a yield; 
And the stubbornest clay shall be as the loam, 

When the patriot spirit shall bow, 
And ask for a friend to the mother at home. 

And her little boy guiding the plow. 

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Oh, God will be kind to the needy and poor 

Who shall suffer from tyranny's hand ; 
His foot-print shall be by the loneliest door. 

And his bounty shall cover the land ; 
And broken the glebe in the valley and mead. 

Where the poorest and weakest shall be, 
And plenty shall spring of the promising seed. 

Till a people shall live to be free; 
And never, oh, never shall tyranny come, 

With iron-bound bosom and brow — 
May God give him back to the mother at home. 

And her little boy guiding the plow! 


From 'Jacob Brown, and Other Poona.' 

There is a flower that loves to shun 
The kisses of the morning sun; 
There is a rose that never knew 
The sparkle of the morning dew. 

But when the mellow evening dies 
Upon the glinting summer skies, 
It gently breaks the sepal close 
And opens out — a perfect rose. 

Oh, ye who wander down the days, 
In crocus, fern, and fennel ways, 
There has not broken on your sight 
The rose that glorifies the night! 

Go call the buttercup that yields 
Its gold florescence to the fields — • 
Go gather all your noons disclose, 
But leave to me my midnight rose! 

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From 'Jacob Brown, and Other Poemib' 

The overhead blue of the summer is gone. 

The overhead canopy gray'd; 
The damp and the chill of the winter is on, 

And the dust of the highway laid. 
I sit in the glare of the simmering beech, 

At the hearth of the old abode, 
And I look with a sigh at the comfortless reach 

Of the farm-lands down the road. 

The wind is astir in the camp of the grain. 

The tents of the grenadier corn ; 
The sentinel stalk at the break of the lane 

Hath a wearisome look and lorn; 
Yet it hasn't been long since into the blades 

The sap of the summer-time flowed 
When I and my ox-team loitered the shades 

Of the oak-trees down the road. 

There wasn't a day that I didn't go by 

The house at the swell of the hill — 
The cattle had broken the close of the rye, 

Or something was wanted at mill; 
And Kitty — she stood in the porch at her wheel, 

And the gold to her shoulder flowed ; 
And what did I care for the "turn of the meal," 

Or the rye-field down the road? 

In the seeding-time, when I followed the plow 

And furrowed the mellow ground, 
There wasn't that labor-like sweat of the brow 

That honester husbandry crowned; 
For the fairy was there at her wheel and spun 

As I plowed or planted or sowed, 
And my labor was never right faithfully done 

In the grain-fields down the road. 

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And then in the heat of the harvesting-day, 

When the sickle and scythe went through, 
It was only the veriest time for play 

That ever a harvester knew ; 
For there was the maid at the humming wheel yet 

Just fronting the swath that I mowed, 
And the scythe ran slow, for my eyes were set 

On the old porch down the road. 

Then the autumn at last came into the year, 

And life took a mellower mood; 
We gathered the grain, and the quail with a whirr 

Went out of the field to the wood. 
And I tried to be steady and brisk, but still 

It was hard to be plying the goad 
When my indolent oxen balked at the hill 

By the farm-house down the road. 

Now Kitty has eyes of the tenderest blue, 

And hair of the glossiest gold, 
But never a word of my loving so true 

To Kitty have ever I told. 
And the winter is here and the winter may go 

And still lean carry the load — 
The green of the spring cometh after the snow 

In the grain-fields down the road. 

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A I .V.X A N I.) K R H . St KFI I K? 

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AMONG the Southern statesmen of the old regime, Alexander 
H. Stephens is a peculiarly interesting figure, commanding at- 
tention not merely because, as Vice-president of the ill-fated Con- 
federacy, he was always a battling representative of state sovereignty 
(his life covering practically the whole period of disunion agitation 
in the United States), but because, among all the Confederate leaders, 
he was the ablest defender of the right of secession. His 'Constitu- 
tional View of the Late War Between the States* presents the most 
scholarly, and perhaps the most literary, argument to be found in any 
of the controversial works dealing with that subject. 

When a delicate male child was born on a Georgia farm in 1812, 
no local prophet could have found the slightest basis for the pre- 
diction that he would become a great lawyer; that he would serve 
with distinction in the forum of the nation for many years; that he 
would be chosen Vice-president of the Southern Confederacy; that, 
after the tragic collapse of the secession movement, in spite of life- 
long physical frailty, he would survive the nightmare of recon- 
struction, write enduring history of great events from intimate 
knowledge, retain his hold on the confidence of his people, and 
die in the Governor's mansion of his native State. For such was 
the poverty and obscurity of his family that only through the aid of 
a charitable institution was he enabled to secure a college education. 
Like most of the leaders of men in this country's earlier period, he 
was what might be called an accident, rising to power and fame 
from humble surroundings, and illustrating afresh the truth that 
the fire of genius, raining down from the stars, may light a flame 
where least expected. 

When a striving young lawyer, constitutionally frail and worn by 
his excessive labors of preparation for admission to the Bar, Ste- 
phens wrote in his diary: "My weight is ninety-four pounds, my 
height sixty-seven inches, my waist twenty inches in circumference, 
and my whole appearance that of a youth of seventeen." The 
rising lawyer and legislator was mistaken for a boy even when he 
was past thirty, and was often addressed as "son" or "buddy." 
During one of his earlier political campaigns the landlady of a way- 

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side inn, entering the public room where he was resting exhausted 
in the one easy-chair, while another man stood, said to him reprov- 
ingly: "My son, give the gentleman this seat." He was thirty- 
eight years old when the Washington correspondent of the Phila- 
delphia Inquirer, while comparing him to John Randolph and paying 
enthusiastic tribute to his powers as an orator and debater, described 
him as "slender in stature, with the face and head of a young girl,** 
Throughout life he was the victim of physical frailty, being prac- 
tically a brain without a body; and to this may in part be attributed 
the incurable melancholy that plainly afflicted him during his entire 

But, unlike John Randolph's, Stephens's bodily infirmity did not 
sour his temper. On the contrary, it developed his capacity for 
human sympathy and strengthened his desire to help others to reach 
the happiness he seemed unable to secure for himself. After pros- 
perity came to him, his works of philanthropy were constant and 
countless. He was lavish of hospitality and gave to all who asked, 
the unfortunate and even the undeserving, such pity and sympathy 
as only a tried and travailing spirit could feel. He provided a col- 
lege education for more than fifty young men and women. He was 
the friend of all, including his own and other negro slaves. In a 
letter written to his brother in 1842 he tells of securing the acquittal 
of a negro "charged with the offence of assault and battery, with 
intent to murder, on a white man.'* Later he volunteered in defence 
of a slave woman in his own county who was accused of poisoning, 
but of whose innocence he was convinced, and secured her release. 
In 1850 he wrote from Washington consenting to the marriage of one 
of his female slaves, directing that a wedding gown and a pair of 
fine shoes be purchased for her, that "a good wedding supper," with 
a roast pig and pound-cake, be prepared, and that the couple be mar- 
ried by a minister "like Christian folks." Being once asked late in 
life what he considered the highest compliment he had ever received, 
Stephens gravely replied by telling how a white-haired old negro at 
Crawfordville, in answer to the inquiry of a stranger as to whether 
he knew the master of "Liberty Hall," said: "Yas, suh, I knows 
Mars' Aleck — I knows him mighty well; he's kinder to dawgs'n 
other mens is to people." Stephens's extraordinary influence over a 
jury was due to this sympathy for the lowly and unfortunate, as 
well as to his intellectual force, logic, and persuasive eloquence. 

His powers as an orator on the floor of Congress perhaps never 
received a more genuine tribute than when Abraham Lincoln wrote to 
his law partner in Illinois in 1848: "I take up my pen to tell you 
that Mr. Stephens, of Georgia, a little, slim, pale-faced, consumptive 

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man, has just concluded the very best speech of ah hour's length I 
ever heard. My old, withered, dry eyes are full of tears yet." In 
1849 The Pennsylvanian, though opposed to him politically, spoke 
of Stephens as the ablest member of the House, referred to his 
"towering, commanding intellect which has held the congregated 
talent of the whole country spellbound for hours," and added: "You 
feel convinced that the feeble being before you is all brain — brain in 
the head, brain in the arms, brain in the legs, brain in the body- 
that the whole man is charged and surcharged with the electricity of 
intellect — ^that a touch would bring forth the divine spark |" 

The critical modem reader of the speeches of our earlier states- 
men is apt to wonder a little at the profound effect they produced and 
the enthusiastic praise they evoked. The explanation of this feeling 
of disappointment is perhaps to be found in a letter written by Ste- 
phens in 1846 complaining of the imperfect reporting of one of his 
speeches, and stating that "the reporter's notes" preserved the order 
of his utterances, but neither his language nor the structure of his 

Stephens's career in Congress, from the period of the Mexican 
War to the secession of the Southern States, was one of continuing 
activity and brilliant achievement. As a Whig, he boldly and scath- 
ingly attacked the policy of President Polk in forcing a war on 
Mexico with the un-American aim of territorial aggrandizement and 
in order to distract public attention from the humiliating issue of 
the Oregon boundary dispute. Driven into the Democratic party 
by the violence of the slavery controversy, and by the long and bitter 
fight over the question of the extension of the institution into the 
territories, he was no less determined and successful in tearing the 
mask from those Northern leaders who pretended to stand by a 
Constitution providing for. slavery and protecting it, yet hearkened 
more and more to the "higher law" doctrine and connived at the 
enactments of a dozen Northern States nullifying the Constitution 
by repudiating a fugitive-slave law which was only an elaboration of 
a provision of the Federal Constitution itself. Speaking once in 
1845 from the standpoint of a peculiarly sympathetic and humane 
individual, Stephens declared that he was "no defender of slavery 
in the abstract" and that he would "rejoice to see all Jthe sons of 
Adam's family in the enjoyment of those rights which are set forth 
in our Declaration of Independence ;" but then, and until the argument 
was closed by the sword, he contended that the natural and necessary 
position of the imported negro was one of subservience to a direct- 
ing superior, going to the Old Testament for confirmation of his 
view that, under certain conditions, slavery was a divinely-permitted 

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and a desirable institution. He labored with all his power for the 
cause of the extension of slavery into the territories, and after seces- 
sion he even suggested the reopening of the slave trade, which had 
been brought to an end in 1808 by a provision of the Constitution 
itself. Probably the greatest mistake of his career was his speech 
at Savannah on March 21, 1861, in which he exalted negro slavery 
as ideal and as the very "corner stone'* of the new and proud edifice 
of the Confederacy. It is true enough that such a race as the negro, 
when placed in association with Americans or Europeans, must 
inevitably occupy a subordinate position; but to see in this unques- 
tionable condition an excuse and mandate for either formal or actual 
slavery is to confuse two distinct things. Stephens did this in all 
honesty, and imagined that where this subject was concerned he and 
the later Southern leaders were wiser than Washington, Jefferson, 
and the other slavery-condemning "fathers'* of the South. The 
modern student wonders that in this "corner stone" speech, which 
all the world was to hear, a man of Stephens's foresight should 
have so emphasized the "peculiar institution" instead of dwelling on 
the violated Constitutional rights of the Southern States as the im- 
perative cause of secession. 

Opposed to secession in 1861 only as bad policy, and having 
always upheld the theoretical right, there was no inconsistency in 
his acceptance of the office of Vice-president of the Confederacy, 
but his views, habits, and tendencies unfitted him for that station. 
He was too uncompromisingly devoted to the principle of separate 
state sovereignty, too enthusiastic an advocate of strictly constitu- 
tional government, even in the midst of revolution, and too outspoken 
when adopted policies did not meet his approval, to take part in a 
government that was born one day and compelled to fight for its life 
the next, and that could have little hope of success without a resort 
to desperate measures. His openly expressed criticism did much 
damage to the cause he represented. His attack on Davis before the 
Georgia Legislature in 1864, and the "peace resolutions" of that body, 
which he inspired, succeeded only in encouraging the North and dis- 
heartening the South. At the Hampton Roads conference he labored 
ably and valiantly, but could gain nothing because the conference 
itself, as Lincoln shrewdly perceived, was a confession of the 
South's despair. 

As a rebuilder after the war, Stephens ranks high among con- 
structive statesmen. In the dark days of re':onstruction he set him- 
self to the noble task of lifting up a fainting ^jeople, binding their 
wounds, and suggesting to them how they might do the best for 
themselves amid almost unparalleled misfortunes. He was not of 

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those who stood aloof in proud despair, but was even willing to be 
accused of kissing the hand that smites in order to conciliate in every 
way consistent with honor and thus serve his people by hastening the 
return of good feeling between the sections. 

It was during the earlier part of this period, when disfranchised 
and thrust aside, that he undertook the most important of his his- 
torical writings. Although handicapped by physical weakness and 
not infrequent attacks of severe illness, he accomplished in about two 
and a half years (1867-70) the task of writing his 'Constitutional 
View of the Late War Between the States,' a book of fourteen hun- 
dred pages in two octavo volumes. His replies to his critics were 
published later in a volume entitled 'Reviewers Reviewed.' A brief 
history of the United States, afterward extensively employed in 
Southern schools, was written in i87o-'72. A more ambitious and 
extensive 'History of the United States' was then undertaken, and 
was published during the last year of his life (1883), but, owing to 
growing infirmities, the want of the same keen interest in a sub- 
ject in large part already handled, and the distractions of a resumed 
political career, the book lacked the vigor of his earlier work and 
did not achieve the same success. 

His 'Constitutional View' is worth the attention of all students 
of American history, not only as the ablest defence of secession that 
has been written, but as a masterly appeal for home rule and con- 
stitutional government as opposed to Federal centralization of power. 
Discussing the first volume in April, 1869, the disinterested London 
Saturday Review said: 

'^In justice to a brave, high-minded and most unfortunate people 
it is even now worth while to hear what a scholar, a man of deep 
political learning, of moderate opinions and temperate spirit, has to 
say in defense of principles which the South deemed worth upholding 
with her whole wealth and her best blood ... It is impossible, 
within our limits, to give a fair idea of such an argument; much 
more to convey a just impression of the lucidity, power of thought, 
vast and appropriate reading, and vigorous reasoning by which it is 
sustained. It would be difficult to name a more perfect masterpiece 
of constitutional reasoning and political disquisition; a work which 
might with greater advantage be placed in the hands of a young 
lawyer, who desired to see how those high questions, which are 
the common ground of the lawyer, the historian and the statesman, 
can be treated by one who combines the qualifications of all three. 
. . . The book is indispensable to every one who wishes to under- 
stand either the Federal Constitution or the Civil War." 

The Latin phrase, Non sibi sed aUis, on the tomb of Georgia's 

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"great commoner*' at Crawfordville is not mere official eulogy, but 
tells the true story of his life. Though not a source of strength to 
the warring Confederacy, Alexander H. Stephens served the South 
well before the great crisis; and after it his wisely directed efforts, 
including his masterly historical defence of a defeated cause, were 
no small factors among the forces that brought to an end the era of 
passion and despotism. Of his wider usefulness it may be said 
that the thanks of all American patriots are due to him as an un- 
tiring champion of constitutional government and State rights as 
opposed to threatening encroachments of the Federal branch of our 
dual system. For these he wrought mightily when they were most 
imperiled; and the possible day when the republic of North America 
shall be merged into the all of empire except the name has been 
made more distant as a result of his efforts. 



From 'The War Between the States.' 

We are then, it seems, by the assent of all, brought to the 
conclusion that the Constitution of the United States was 
formed by separate, distinct, and Sovereign States. This is 
the conclusion to which we are all, however willingly or re- 
luctantly, compelled to come at last, not only by the testimony 
of witnesses of the highest order, and by the decisions of the 
judicial tribunal of the highest authority, the Supreme Court 
of the United States, Chief Justice Marshall at its head, but by 
the everlasting records themselves, by all the great facts of 
our history, which can never be obliterated or effaced. 

We have seen that the Union existing between these States, 
anterior to the formation of the new Constitution, was a Com- 
pact, or as Judge Marshall expressed it, nothing but "a league" 
between Sovereign States. 

We have seen that in remodelling the Articles of the old 
Confederation, it was not the object, or design of any of the 
parties, to change the nature or character of that Union ; but 

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only to make it more perfect, by an enlargement of the dele- 
gation of powers conferred upon the Government thereby es- 
tablished with such changes in its organic structure, touching 
the mode and manner of exercising them, as might be thought 
best to attain the object of their delegation. 

We have also seen, both by the instrument itself, and by 
the understanding of all the parties at the time, that this 
was what was done by the adoption of the present Constitu- 
tion, and nothing more. In other words, we have seen, and 
come to the conclusion from a review of all the facts, that the 
Constitution, as the Articles of Confederation, is a Compact 
between "the Sovereign members of the Union" under it, as 
General Jackson styles the States. 

With these essential points first settled, beyond dispute 
or question, we are now prepared to go a step further and 
approach the end of our immediate and important inquiry, 
touching the nature and character of the Grovernment, so 
formed and constituted, and to see clearly where, under it, 
Paramount or ultimate Sovereignty necessarily resides. 

That the Government of the United States is a Confed- 
erated Republic, or Confederacy, of some sort, and not a 
Consolidated Government, is now no longer a matter of inves- 
tigation or question. Whatever other characteristics, peculiar 
or anomalous, it possesses, it is beyond doubt, cavil, or dis- 
pute. Federal in its nature and character. 

That it presents, in its structure, several new features, 
wholly unknown in all former Confederacies of which the 
world's history furnishes examples, all admit. This was well 
understood at the time of its formation, as well as ever since. 
No exactly similar model is to be found amongst all the na- 
tions of the earth, or in the annals of mankind, in the past or 
present. But we have seen the model which was in the minds 
of its authors at the time it was framed, and which formed the 
basis of their conceptions and designs. That was the model 
of a Confederated Republic given by Montesquieu. This 
model was not only in the minds of the Convention which 
framed the Constitution, but in the minds of all the Conven- 
tions of the States which adopted it. This has been shown 
from the proceedings of those bodies. That model exhibited 
several small Republics so united into a larger one, for foreign 

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and inter -State purposes, as to present themselves in joint 
Combination to the world, as one Nation, while as between 
themselves each one retained unimpaired its own inherent, 
innate Sovereignty and Nationality. This was the ideal before 
all the States of this Union, at the time of the formation of 
the Constitution. According to this model, which was as far 
as the wisdom of men then had gone in forming Governments 
for the preservation of free institutions, and to prevent the 
principle of universal Monarchical Rule, the action of the 
larger and conventional State or Nation, so formed for ex- 
ternal or foreign purposes, was confined in its internal opera- 
tions exclusively to the integral members of the Union or 
Confederation. No power was conferred upon this joint agent 
of all to interfere, in any way or under any circumstances, 
with the individual citizens of the separate Republics. 

But a new idea had for sometime been in embryo. It was 
then struggling into birth. Jefferson's brain had first felt the 
impulse of its quickening life. The framers of the Constitu- 
tion saw its star, as the wise men of the East saw the star of 
Bethlehem. They did homage to it, even in the manger, 
where it then lay in its swaddlings, as the political Messiah 
just bom for the regeneration of the down trodden Peoples 
of the Earth. That idea was to apply a new principle to the 
model before them, to improve upon it by a division of its 
Powers, and by extending its operations, without changing the 
basis upon which it was formed. It was simply for these 
separate Republics to empower their joint agent, the artificial 
or conventional Nation of their own creation, to act, in the 
discharge of its limited functions, directly upon their citizens 
respectively, and to organize these functions into separate de- 
partments. Executive, Judicial and Legislative, as their own 
separate systems were organized. This, it is true, was a new 
and a grand development in the progress of the science of 
Government, which, of all sciences, unfortunately for man- 
kind, is the slowest in progress. 

But this was the idea — ^this the design, and this was just 
what was done. 

The great object was to obviate the difficulties and the 
evils, so often arising in all former Federal Republics, of re- 
sorting to force against separate members, when derelict in 

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the discharge of their obligations under the terms and cove- 
nants of their Union. Difficulties of this sort had already been 
felt under their own Confederation, which they were con- 
vened to remedy. Some States had failed to meet the requisi- 
tions upon them for their quota of taxes to pay the common 
expenses, and to sustain the common public credit. By the 
laws of Nations, the Confederates of States thus derelict, had 
the clear right to compel a fulfilment of their solemn obliga- 
tions, though the very act of doing it would necessarily have 
put an end to the Confederation. The question of coercion 
in the collection of unpaid requisitions, on the part of some of 
the States, had been raised during the old Confederation. 
Jefferson saw that this would be necessary if that system 
could not be amended. All, however, saw that a resort to 
force, in such cases, would result in war which might become 
general, and the loss of the liberties of all might, perhaps, 
ensue. This newly born idea presented an easy solution of the 
whole vexed question. It was adopted, by the Parties agree- 
ing in the Compact itself, that in the collection of the taxes 
for the common defence and general welfare, and in some 
other cases, this common agent of all the members of the 
Confederacy, should act directly upon the individual citizens 
of each, within the sphere of its specific and limited powers, 
and with a complete machinery of functions, for this purpose, 
similar to their own. This is the whole of it. 

It is this exceedingly simple, but entirely new feature, in 
Confederated Republics, which has so puzzled and bewildered 
so many in this as in other countries, as to the nature and 
character of the United States Government. It is this feature, 
in the American plan, which struck the learned and philosophic 
De Tocqueville, who, of all foreigners, seems most deeply to 
have studied our institutions, and to have become most thor- 
oughly imbued with their spirit and principles. On this point 
he says : 

"This Constitution, which may at first be confounded with 
the Federal Constitutions which have preceded it, rests, in 
truth, upon a wholly novel theory, which may be considered as 
a great discovery in modern political science. In all the Con- 
federations which preceded the American Constitution of 
1789, the allied States, for a common object, agreed to obey 

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the injunctions of a Federal Government; but they reserved 
to themselves the right of ordaining and enforcing the execu- 
tion of the laws of the Union. The American States, which 
combined, in 1789, agreed, that the Federal Government 
should not only dictate, but should execute its own enactments. 
In both cases, the right is the same, but the exercise of the 
right is different; and this difference produced the most mo- 
mentous consequences." 

In all this he is perfectly right. The principle thus intro- 
duced was a new one. It was unknown to the old world. Un- 
known to Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Grotius, Puffendorf, or 
Montesquieu. It was, indeed, a grand discovery. The honor, 
the glory, of this discovery, was reserved for this Continent, 
and for those who had first proclaimed the great truth that all 
"Governments derive their just powers from the consent of 
the governed." From this simple discovery, did, indeed, fol- 
low the most momentous consequences. From it sprang that 
unparalleled career of prosperity and greatness which marked 
our history under its beneficent operations for nearly three 
quarters of a century ! 

These momentous consequences in rapid growth and de- 
velopment, and the unsurpassed happiness and prosperity, re- 
sulted from this simple, but wonderful improvement made by 
the Fathers, in 1787, upon Montesquieu's model of a Confed- 
erated Republic. This new feature, however, in the work- 
manship of their master-hands has been what has caused so 
much confusion in the minds of many as to the nature and 
character of the Government. They do not seem to understand 
how this new feature is consistent with a strictly Federal Sys- 
tem.. The difficulty with them seems to arise entirely from 
the fact, that none such ever existed before. They have no 
specific name for this new development or discovery in the 
science of Government. Hence the great variety of sentiments 
in the several State Conventions, some calling it a consoli- 
dated Government, and some of its friends styling it a mixed 
Government — partly Federal and partly National — Federal in 
its formation and National in its operation. Of this class was 
Mr. Madison. And hence, also, some in later times have styled 
it a Compositive Government. 

A little analysis and generalization may enable us to bring 

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order out of this confusion. In one sense it is a National 
Government. In this, however, there is nothing new or pecu- 
liar in the Government established by the New Constitution. 
In the same sense in which it is National, and none other, was 
the old Confederation National. The United States, under 
that, we have seen was called and properly called a Nation, 
for certain purposes. For the same purpose, and in the same 
sense, and none other, may they now properly be called a 
Nation. Their present Government is National in the same 
sense in which the Governments of all Confederated Republics 
are National, and none other. The very object in forming all 
Confederated Republics is to create a new and entirely arti- 
ficial or conventional State or Nation, which springs from 
their joint Sovereignties, and which has no existence apart 
from them, and which is but the Corporate Agent of all those 
Sovereignties creating it, and through which alone they are 
to be known to Foreign Powers, during the continuance of the 
Confederation. This Conventional Nation is but a Political 
Corporation. It has no original or inherent powers what- 
ever. All its powers are derived — all are specific — all are lim- 
ited — all are delegated — all may be resumed — all may be for- 
feited by misuser, as well as non-user. It is created by the 
separate Republics forming it. They are the Creators. It is 
but their Creature — subject to their will and control. They 
barely delegate the exercise of certain Sovereign powers to 
their common agent, retaining to themselves, separately, all 
that absolute, ultimate Sovereignty, by which this common 
agent, with all its delegated powers, is created. This is the 
basis, and these are the principles, upon which all Confederated 
Republics are constructed. The new Conventional State or 
Nation thus formed is brought into being by the will of the 
several States or Nations forming it, and by the same will it 
may cease to exist, as to any or all of them, while the separate 
Sovereignties of its Creators may survive, and live on forever. 
A Government so constructed, being itself founded on 
Compact between distinct Sovereign States, is necessarily Fed- 
eral in its nature, while it at the same time gives one national 
character and position amongst the other Powers of the world, 
to all the Parties constituting it! In this sense, all Confed- 
erated Governments are both Federal and National. The Gov- 

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ernment of the United States is no exception to the rule. In 
this sense, Washington, Jefferson, and Jackson, spoke of the 
United States under the Constitution as a Nation, as well as a 
Confederated Republic. In this sense, it is properly styled by 
all a Nation. This was the idea symbolized in the motto, 
"E pluribus unum.'' One from many. That is, one State or 
Nation — one Federal Republic — from many Republics, States 
or Nations. This is what is meant by the Nation when prop- 
erly applied to the United States. It is not the whole peojde, 
in the aggregate constituting one body united on the principles 
of a social Compact, but that conventional State which springs 
from and is dependent upon the several State Sovereignties 
creating it, as in all other cases of Confederated Republics. 
The bare fact that it operates on the individual citizens of the 
several States, in specified cases, and has in its organization 
the requisite functions for this purpose, does not change, in 
the least, the nature of the Government, if this arrangement is 
agreed upon in the Compact between the Sovereign Parties 
to it. That depends entirely upon the great fact which we 
were so long in establishing, that the Government itself, with 
all its powers as well as machinery, was founded upon Cora- 
pact between separate and distinct Sovereign States. If this 
be so, as has been conclusively established, then the Govern- 
ment, so constructed, must of necessity be Federal, and purely 
Federal, in its character. This character is not changed by 
the adoption of any machinery, for its practical workings, 
which may be thus agreed upon. For it is perfectly com- 
petent for independent and Sovereign Nations, by treaty or 
compact, to make any agreement they please touching the en- 
forcement of such treaties, or the terms of such compacts, over 
their respective citizens or subjects, and by such agencies as 
they may please jointly to agree upon, without the least im- 
pairment whatever of their respective Sovereignties. 

The great question, therefore, in this investigation was, 
is the Constitution a Compact between Sovereignties? If so, 
the Government established by it is purely, entirely, and thor- 
oughly Federal in its nature, and no more National in any 
sense than all former Federal Republics. All those features in 
its operation directly upon individuals, instead of upon States, 
which give rise to ideas of Nationality, or of its being of a 

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mixed nature, spring themselves from the Federal Compact. 
Ours, therefore, is a pure Confederated Republic, upon the 
model of Montesquieu, with the new principle referred to 
incorporated into the system, without changing, in the least, 
the basis of its organization — at least, so thought the Fathers 
by whom it was established. It is true we have as yet no apt 
distinctive word in political nomenclature, by which to char- 
acterize this specific distinctive improvement in the purely 
Federal system. This only shows the barrenness of language. 
Actualities often precede nomenclature. And, hence, De 
Tocqueville, perceiving this in our system, said of it, that 
"the new word, which ought to express this novel thing, does 
not yet exist.*' "The human understanding," says he, "more 
easily invents new things than new words, and we are hence 
constrained to employ many improper and inadequate expres- 
sions.*' No truer remark was ever made about the Govern- 
ment of the United States. All the difficulty or confusion on 
the subject, however, relates only to the name. It is one of 
nomenclature, and not substance. That stands out perfectly 
distinct in all its features, however unlanguaged it, with these 
features, may yet be. This want of a suitable name applies, 
also, only to its specific character, that name which will per- 
fectly characterize its specific difference from other Confed- 
eracies, ancient or modern. There is no difficulty as to the 
proper generic term applicable to it. That is unquestionably 
Federal. Its genus, with all the incidents of the class, is a 
Federal or Confederated Republic. That is fixed by the fact 
that it is founded upon Compact — Confederation between dis- 
tinct Sovereign Powers. 

What makes any Government Federal, but the fact that it 
springs, with all its powers and functions, to whatever char- 
acter, from covenants and agreements between the Sovereign 
contracting parties creating it! And is it not as competent 
for a Sovereign State to agree, that the Federal agent or Gov- 
ernment shall act upon her citizens, in specified cases, as it is 
for her to agree, that the same agent or Government may act 
upon herself ? May pass edicts of equal force and obligation 
upon her, which she is equally bound by the Compact to execute 
by her own machinery of laws? Where is the difference? 
What makes the Union between any States Federal is not the 

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manner of its action, but the Foedus, the Covenant, the Con- 
vention, the Compact upon which it is founded! 

So much for the nature of the Government of the United 
States, and the terms by which it may be characterized. 

Where, under the system so constituted, does Sovereignty 
reside? This is now the great and last question. It must 
reside somewhere. It must reside, as all admit, with the 
people somewhere. Does it reside with the whole people in 
mass of all the States together, or with the people of the 
several States separately? That is the only question. The 
whole subject is narrowed down to this : Where, in this coun- 
try, resides that Paramount authority that can rightfully 
make and unmake Constitutions? In all Confederated Re- 
publics, according to Montesquieu, Vattel, and Burlamaqui, it 
remains with the Sovereign States so Confederated. Is our 
Confederated Republic an exception to this rule? If so, how 
does it appear? Is there any thing in its history, anterior to 
the present Compact of Union, that shows it to be an excep- 
tion? Certainly not; for the Sovereignty of each State was 
expressly retained in the first Articles of Union. Is there 
then anything in the present Compact itself that shows that it 
was surrendered by them in that? If so, where is the clause 
bearing that import ? None can be found ! Again : if it was 
thereby surrendered, to whom was it surrendered? To whom 
did it pass ? Did it pass to all the people of the United States ? 
Of course not ; for not one particle of power of any sort, much 
less Sovereignty, is delegated in the Constitution to the people 
of the United States. All powers therein delegated are to 
the States in their Sovereign character, under the designation 
of United. States. Is it then surrendered to the United States 
jointly? Certainly not, for one of the main objects in form- 
ing the Compact, as before stated, and as clearly appears from 
the instrument itself, was, to preserve and perpetuate separate 
State existence. The guarantee to this effect, from the very 
words used, implies their Sovereignty. There can be no such 
thing as a perfect State without Sovereignty. It certainly 
is not parted with by any express terms in that instrument. 
If it be surrendered thereby it must be by implication only. 
But how can it be implied from any words or phrases in that 
instrument? If carried by implication, it must be on the 

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strange assumption that it is an incident only of some one or 
all of those specific and specially enumerated powers expressly 
delegated. This cannot be, as that would be making the inci- 
dent greater than the object, the shadow more solid than the 
substance. For Sovereignty is the highest and greatest of all 
political powers. It is itself the source as well as embodiment 
of all political powers, both great and small. All proceed and 
emanate from it. All the great powers specifically and ex- 
pressly delegated in the Constitution, such as the power to 
declare war and make peace; to raise and support armies, to 
tax and lay excise duties, etc., are themselves but the incidents 
of Sovereignty. If this great embodiment of all powers was 
parted with, why were any minor specifications made? Why 
any enumeration? Was not such specification or enumeration 
both useless and absurd? 

All the implications are the other way. The bare fact 
that all the powers parted with by the State were delegated 
only, as all admit, necessarily implies that the greater power 
delegating still continued to exist. 

If, then, this ultimate absolute Sovereignty did reside with 
the several States separately, as without question it did, up to 
the formation of the Constitution ; and if, in the Constitution, 
Sovereignty is not parted with by the States in express terms ; 
if, as Mr. Webster said, in 1839, there is not a word about 
Sovereignty in it ; and if, further, this greatest of all political 
powers cannot justly be claimed as an incident to lesser ones, 
and thereby carried by implication ; then, of course, was it not 
most clearly still retained and reserved to the people ofi the 
several States in that mass of residuary rights in the lan- 
guage of Mr. JeflFerson, which was expressly reserved in the 
Constitution itself? 

It is true it was not so expressly reserved in the Constitu- 
tion at first, because it was deemed, as the debates in the Fed- 
eral Convention, as well as the State Conventions, clearly show 
wholly unnecessary ; so general was the understanding that it 
could not go, by inference or implication, from any thing in 
the Constitution; or in other words, that it could not be sur- 
rendered without express terms to that effect. The general 
understanding was the universally acknowledged principle in 
public law, that nothing is held good against Sovereignty by 

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implication. But to quiet the apprehensions of Patriot Henry, 
Samuel Adams, and the Conventions of a majority of the 
States, this reservation of Sovereignty was soon after put in 
the Constitution amongst other amendments, in plain and un- 
equivocal language. So cautious and guarded were the men 
of that day that the Government had hardly commenced op- 
erations before all inferences that had been drawn against the 
reserved Sovereignty of the States, from the silence of the 
Constitution, in this particular and some others, were fully 
rebutted by several amendments, proposed by the States, in 
Congress assembled, at their first session. These amendments 
were preceded by a preamble, which shows that they were 
both declaratory and restrictive in their object. Here is what 
was done :^ 

"The Conventions of a number of the States, having, at 
the time of their adopting the Constitution, expressed a desire, 
in order to prevent misconstruction or abuse of its powers, that 
further declaratory and restrictive clauses should be added: 
And as extending the ground of public confidence in the Gov- 
ernment, will best insure the beneficent end of its institution ; 

"Resolved, by the Senate and House of Representatives 
of the United States of America, in Congress assembled, two 
thirds of both Houses concurring ; that the following Articles 
be proposed to the Legislatures of the several States, as amend- 
ments to the Constitution of the United States, all, or any of 
which Articles, when ratified by three fourths of the said Leg- 
islatures, to be valid to all intents and purposes, as part of the 
said Constitution." 

The language of one of the amendments then proposed, on 
the subject we are now upon, is as follows: "The powers not 
delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor pro- 
hibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States, respect- 
ively, or to the people." 

This amendment, which was promptly agreed to by the 
States unanimously, declares that all powers not delegated 
were reserved to the States respectively; this, of course, in- 
cludes, in the reservation. Sovereignty, which is the source of 
all powers, those delegated as well as those reserved. This 
reservation Mr. Samuel Adams said, we have seen in the 

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Massachusetts Convention, was consonant with the like reser- 
vation in the first Articles of Confederation. And such was 
the universal understanding at the time. Most of the other 
amendments, then proposed, were likewise agreed to by the 
States, but not unanimously. 

Can any proposition within the domain of reason be clearer, 
from all these facts, than that the Sovereignty of the States, 
that great Paramount authority which can rightfully make and 
unmake Constitutions, resides still with the States? Does not 
this declaratory amendment, added to the original covenant 
in the Constitution, which provides for its own amendment, 
show this beyond all doubt or question? Why were further 
amendments to it to be submitted to the States for their rati- 
fication before they could be binding, but upon the indisputable 
principle or postulate that Sovereignty, which alone has 
control of all such matters, still resides with the States sev- 
erally? There is, my dear sirs, no answer to this. 

The Government of the United States, however new some 
of its features are in the machinery of its operation, is no 
exception to the general rule, applicable to all Federal Re- 
publics, as to where the ultimate absolute Sovereign or Para- 
mount authority resides. According to that rule, in all of 
them, it is retained by the Parties to the Compact. Such was 
the case in the model of Montesquieu. Such is the case in all 
Confederacies of this character, according to Vattel, as we 
have seen. Such is, necessarily, the case in our system, built 
upon these models. All unions of separate States, under Com- 
pacts of this sort, are founded upon the same essential basis. 
Sovereignty, with us, therefore, upon these fixed and indis- 
putable principles, now resides, as I said before, just where it 
did in 1776 — ^just where it did in 1778 — and just where it did 
in 1787: that is, with the people of the several States of the 
Federal Union. This Sovereignty, so residing with them, is 
the Paramount authority to which allegiance is due. Allegi- 
ance, a word brought from the Old World, of Latin origin, 
from ligo, to bind, means the obligation which every one 
owes to that Power in the State, to which he is indebted for 
the protection of his rights of person and property. Allegiance 
and Sovereignty, as we have seen, are reciprocal. "To what- 
ever Power a citizen owes allegiance, that Power is his Sov- 

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ereign," To what Power are the citizens of the several States 
indebted for protection of person and property, in all the rela- 
tions of life, for the regulation of which Governments are in- 
stituted? Certainly not to the Federal Government. That 
Government, in its operations, has no right to interfere, in any 
way whatever, with the citizens of the several States, but in a 
few exceptional cases ; and then, not for protection, but in the 
enforcement of laws, which the State would have been bound, 
by her plighted faith, to execute herself, had not this new 
feature been introduced into the Federal system. The Govern- 
ment of the United States, in its internal polity, is known to 
the citizens of the several States only by its requisitions upon 
individuals, instead of States, except in a very few specified 
cases. In its National character, it gives ample protection 
abroad. This was one of its main objects. In its postal 
arrangements, it furnishes many conveniences, for which it 
is duly paid. In these particulars, there is no difference be- 
tween the Constitution and the fiirst Articles of Confedera- 
tion. But it was no part of the objects of either to afford pro- 
tection to the citizens of the States, respectively, in all those 
relations of life which mark the internal polity of different 
States and Nations. These, now, as before, all depend upon 
the Sovereign will of the States. This Sovereign will fixes the 
status of the various elements of Society, as well as their 
rights. In the States, severally, remains the great right of 
Eminent Domain, which reserves to them complete jurisdiction 
and control over the rights of person and property of their 
entire population. With them remains, untrammelled, the 
power to establish codes of laws — civil, military, and criminal. 
They may punish for what crimes they please, and as they 
please, and the Government of the United States cannot inter- 
fere. To their own Legislatures, their own Judiciaries, their 
own Executives, their own laws, established by their own 
Paramount authority, do all the citizens of all the States look 
for whatever protection and security they receive, possess, or 
enjoy, in all the civil relations of life. In all such matters as 
require that protection to which allegiance is due, the Govern- 
ment of the United States is unknown to them. 

It is true that the States did covenant, in the Constitution, 
that no State should "pass any law, making any thing but gold 

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and silver coin a legal tender in the payment of debts ; pass any 
bill of attainder, or ex post facto law, or law impairing the 
obligation of contracts ;" but this, in no wise, changes the prin- 
ciple. Those provisions were put in by each State, to protect 
the rights of her citizens against the unjust legislation of other 
States, and not against her own legislation. By the Consti- 
tution, the citizens of each State have all the privileges and 
immunities of all the citizens of the several States, in their 
intercourse with each other. Hence, the propriety and wisdom 
of these provisions. It is, in itself, only a negative protection, 
and such as each State provided, in the Compact, for the pro- 
tection of her own citizens, in other States, against the acts 
of the other States, and not against their own. It was in- 
serted from no such view as that the citizens of the sev- 
eral States were to look to the Federal Government for that 
protection, in any sense, which is the foundation of all allegi- 
ance. The guarantee of rights, in the amendments to the Con- 
stitution, such as the right to bear arms, freedom from arrest, 
etc., apply, exclusively, to the Federal Government. They 
were but bulwarks, thrown around the citadel of State Rights, 
to protect the citizens of the respective States from the ex- 
ercise of unjust powers over them by the General Government. 
They were not inserted with any view of protecting the citi- 
zens of the respective States from the action of their own 
State Governments. 

On the several State authorities, therefore, are all the 
citizens, of all the States, under our system, entirely depend- 
ent for the protection of all those civil rights and franchises, 
for which, mainly, human societies are organized, and for 
which, mainly, Governments are instituted by men. To this 
several State authority, when properly expressed, is the alle- 
giance proper of every citizen due. This is his Sovereign. 

These things being so, I think I have made it very clearly 
appear, why I acted as I did, in going with my State, and 
obeying her high behest, when she resumed the Sovereign 
Powers she had delegated to the United States, by entering 
into a Compact of Union with them in 1788, and asserted her 
right to be a free and independent State, which she was ac- 
knowledged to be by George the Third of England, in the 
treaty of peace, in 1783. 

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The rightfulness of this act, on the part of the State, is 
now the question. We will come to that presently. But the 
question now is, was it not the duty of all her citizens to go 
with her in her solemn Resolve? Was not every one bound 
to do so, or become guilty of incivism, the highest of all po- 
litical offences against the society of which one is a member? 
Would not every one, refusing to obey the mandate of the 
State, in sucli case have subjected himself to her laws against 
treason to her Sovereignty? In that case, could the United 
States, either de jure or de facto, have saved him or afforded^ 
him any protection whatever against the prescribed penalty? 
By the very terms of the Compact, if that was still in force, 
if he had escaped, and gone into another State, he would, nec- 
essarily, upon demand, have been delivered up to the State for 
trial and punishment ! But in point of fact, the United States 
had not an officer, civil or military, within the State. All had 
retired, either voluntarily or by compulsion. Not an emblem 
even of their authority was to be found within her borders. 
To whose authority then could any citizen look for any sort 
of protection, but the authority of the State ? Was not obedi- 
ence both proper and due to that authority which alone could 
accord proper protection, both de jure and de facto? 

Now as to the rightfulness of the State's thus resuming 
her Sovereign powers! In doing it she seceded from that 
Union, to which, in the language of Mr. Jefferson, as well 
as General Washington, she had acceded as a Sovereign State. 
She repealed her ordinance by which she ratified and agreed 
to the Constitution and became a party to the Compact under 
it. She declared herself no longer bound by that Compact, 
and dissolved her alliance with the other parties to it. The 
Constitution of the United States, and the laws passed in pur- 
suance of it, were no longer the supreme law of the people of 
Georgia, any more than the treaty with France was the su- 
preme law of both countries, after its abrogation, in 1798, by 
the same rightful authority which had made it in the beginning. 

In answer to your question, whether she could do this 
without a breach of her solemn obligations, under the Com- 
pact, I give this full and direct answer : she had a perfect right 
so to do, subject to no authority, but the great moral law which 
governs the intercourse between Independent Sovereign Pow- 

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ers. Peoples, or Nations. Her action was subject to the au- 
thority of that law and none other. It is the inherent right of 
Nations, subject to this law alone, to disregard the obliga- 
tions of Compacts of all sorts, by declaring themselves no 
longer bound in any way by them. This, by universal consent, 
may be rightfully done, when there has been a breach of the 
Compact by the other party or parties. It was on this prin- 
ciple, that the United States abrogated their treaty with 
France, in 1798. The justifiableness of the act depends, in 
every instance, upon the circumstances of the case. The gen- 
eral rule is, if all the other States — the Parties to the Con- 
federation — faithfully comply with their obligations, under 
the Compact of Union, no State would be morally justified in 
withdrawing from a Union so formed, unless it were neces- 
sary for her own preservation. Self-preservation is the first 
law of nature, with States or Nations, as it is with individuals. 
But in this case the breach of plighted faith was not on 
the part of Georgia, or those States which withdrew or at- 
tempted to withdraw from the Union. Thirteen of their 
Confederates had openly and avowedly disregarded their 
obligations under that clause of the Constitution which cove- 
nanted for the rendition of fugitives from service, to say 
nothing of the acts of several of them, in a like open and pal- 
pable breach of faith, in the matter of the rendition of fugi- 
tives from justice. These are facts about which there can 
be no dispute. Then, by universal law, as recc^ized by all 
Nations, savage as well as civilized, the Compact, thus broken 
by some of the Parties, was no longer binding upon the others. 
The breach was not made by the seceding States. Under the 
circumstances, and the facts of this case, therefore, the legal 
as well as moral right, on the part of Georgia, according to the 
laws of Nations and nature, to declare herself no longer bound 
by the Compact, and to withdraw from the Union under it, 
was perfect and complete. These principles are too incon- 
testably established to be questioned, much less denied, in the 
forum of reason and justice. 

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[185»- ] 


IT was along in the early '90s, if I remember aright, that readers 
of our better magazines began to be attracted by the sonnets of 
Mr. Stockard. I can recall the surprise and delight with which I 
first came upon them. Let me quote one of these sonnets. It will 
serve at once as an illustration and a text: 

"Upon the arm of Time his hand he laid, 

And claimed with all-compelling power his eyes; 

The gray, unsleeping spirit with fierce surprise 
In his destroying course a moment stayed. 
'Grant me this guerdon, ravening Time,' he prayed, 

'That through the future's dateless centuries 

The light from off these valleys, fields, and skies. 
Until thy reign be past, may never fadel' 

Years have not scathed those immemorial springs; 
On swaths of thymy grass and osier-shoots 

By wimpling streams Theocritus pipes to-day; 

Unhurt down vales of amaranth Thyrsis sings, 

And Pan's clear syrinx calls, and far away 
O'er sweet Sicilian fields the shepherds' fifes and flutes 1*' 

Now, this is in every way beautiful and noble. The workman- 
ship is well nigh perfect, the characterization is at once correct and 
luminous, and the feeling is genuine and well sustained. Mr. Stock- 
ard was unknown to me then, and I put him down in my mind as an 
Englishman, one of that group of critic-poets to which belong Will- 
iam Watson, Andrew Lang, and Ernest Myers — ^men who find in 
literature, rather than in life, their inspiration. Judge of my added 
surprise and delight when I discovered that Mr. Stockard was not 
only a native of the South, but was living within a stone's throw, as 
it were, of my own new-made home in the old North State. 

Henry Jerome Stockard was bom in Chatham County, North 

Carolina, September 15, 1858, coming of good Revolutionary stock on 

both mother's and father's side. To the mother, left a widow when 

the boy was but twelve, and herself possessing unusual qualities of 


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head and heart, her poet son has paid loving and beautiful tribute 
in song. Mr. Stockard was educated in the public schools of his 
native county and at the University of North Carolina, from which 
he received the degree of Master of Arts in 1889. After serving the 
public schools of the State in various capacities, he was, in 1890, 
made associate in the English department of the University of North 
Carolina. In 1896 Mr. Stockard went to Fredericksburg College, 
Virginia, as professor of English, and in 1900 he returned to North 
Carolina as professor of Latin in Peace Institute, Raleigh. Of this 
latter institution he was made president in 1907. It is needless to 
add that Mr. Stockard has been successful as a teacher. Perhaps, 
had he been less successful, he might have been compelled to give 
more undivided allegiance to the muses. 

While, as I have said above, Mr. Stockard has drawn inspiration 
for some of his best work from literature and the past, none the less 
has he kept in lively touch with the present, and especially with life 
immediately around him. Indeed, a certain critic has called Mr. 
Stockard "the voice of North Carolina." And this high praise has 
been well deserved. When the Guilford battlegrounds were dedicated, 
Mr. Stockard was called upon to celebrate in ringing verse the bra- 
very of the North Carolina riflemen; at the unveiling of the State's 
memorial at Appomattox, it was Mr. Stockard who spoke, in stir- 
ring measures, not alone for North Carolina, but for the South, and 
for the Union. And his verse has paid loving tribute to our Con- 
federate dead, among whom would seem to be his own brothers: 

. . . "The boy-soldiers twain 
That sleep by purling stream or old stone wall 
In some far-off and unknown grave.'* 

Of nature Mr. Stockard always writes with grace and feeling, 
although one questions whether the poet is quite the lover of the fields 
and woods that he is of men and books. Still, there is in such poems 
as "Knee-Deep" and "My Pipe" the authentic nature-thrill. 

While Mr, Stockard has been a generous contributor to the better 
magazines, he has published only one volume of verse.* But this 
little book writes his title clear to the name of Poet. Weights and 
measures are nowhere so futile as in poetry. Gray's place in litera- 
ture is more secure than Dryden's. Then, too, Mr. Stockard is but 
in the prime of manhood, and of his poetry we can confidently hope 
the best is yet to come. Perhaps we are warranted in saying he never 
can be a "popular" poet. His audience must needs be few, though 

•'Fugitive Lines,' G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York, 1897. See also 'The Bioffrairfiical 
History of North Carolina,' Vol. V. 

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fit Of his place in literature we are equally warranted in predicting 
that, while it may not be large, it will be high and secure. His 
sonnets have already taken their place among the best 

yjeHi,M.4^tm^ -^^ ^rCl 


From 'Fugitive Lines.' Copyright, G. P. Putnam's Sons, and used here by pennittion 
of the author and the publishers. 

Come tenderly, O Death! 

Yet not with silence palpable, but come 

To me as comes a mother to her sick, 

Dream-troubled child, singing with tone subdued 

Sweet songs that seem to its poor fevered brain 

Voiced by some far-away singer. 

And when it will not rest, 

Even as she bends above its bed, and lifts 

It to her heart where it forgets to cry, 

So do thou. Angel of Death, above me lean 

With gentleness unspeakable, and uplift 

Me in thy kind, strong arms, and croon thy song 

Until its charming cadence wind and wind 

Through all the secret passes of my soul. 

And I am stilled, and griefs are all unlearned, 

With days and months and years 1 


The name thou wearest does thee grievous wrong. 

No mimic thou ! That voice is thine alone ! 
The poets sing but strains of Shakespeare's song; 

The birds, but notes of thine imperial own ! 

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"Knee-deep, knee-deep!" I am a child again! 

I hear the cow-bells tinkling down the lane 
The plaintive whippoorwills, the distant call 
Of quails beyond the hill where night-hawks fall 

From lambent skies to fields of golden grain, 

I hear the milkmaid's song, the clanking chain 
Of ploughman homeward bound, the lumbering wain. 
And down the darkling vale 'mid rushes tall, 
"Knee-deep, knee-deep!" 

We're all at home — ^John, Wesley, little Jane — 
Dead long ago— and the boy-soldiers twain 
That sleep by purling stream or old stone wall 
In some far-off and unknown grave — ^we're all 
At home with mother ! — heartache gone, and pain — 
"Knee-deep, knee-deep!" 


When the summer breeze steals thro' the trees. 

And the sickle moon is low ; 
When o'er the hills the whippoorwill's 

Clear flutings come and go; 
When the katydid, in the tree-top hid. 

Calls ever across the dark. 
And down the marsh where the frogs sing harsh 

The fire-fly lights its spark — 

Then the golden crumbs for me! 
My pipe and reverie! 

The voices grand from childhood's land. 
And the scenes that used to be ! 

When the days are cold, and o'er the wold 

The winds of winter sweep; 
When the darkness falls, and upon the walls 

The shadows dance and leap; 


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When the full moon shines thro' the snow-capped pines 

Where the midnight witches brew, 
While the embers die and the great owls cry 

Their weird "tu-whit, tu-whoo 1" — 

Then my pipe and the crumbs of gold I 
And the future's gates unfold! 

Thro' the lifting haze rise the braver days 
That the untried seasons hold ! 


To be a hero must you do some deed 

With which your name shall ring the world around ? 
With blade uplifted must you dare to lead 

Where armies reel on slopes with lightning crowned? 

Or must you set for polar seas your sails, 

And chart the Arctic's silent realms, and gray? 

Or drag your barge through virgin streams in pales 
Of undiscovered lands? I tell you. Nay! 

Who is earth's greatest hero? He that bears. 
Deep buried in his kingly heart, his lot 

Of suffering; and, if need be, he that dares 
Lay down his life for right, and falters not ! 


CThe Home of Edgar Allan Poe) 

Not here he dwelt, but down some path unknown 
That winding sinks into night's spectral vale, 
Where prisoned, uneasy winds forever wail, 

And plangent seas on dolorous shores intone. 

His charmed, cloud-builded home was there upthrown. 
Engirt by marsh and mere and wastes of bale; 
No foot save his e'er trod those reaches pale ; 

His v/ere those tracts abandoned, his alone. 

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There with hushed breath he heard the thin, far strains 
Of Israfel steal through his haunted room, 
Or caught the nearer, clearer clank of chains : 
Now o'er him leaned Lenore in deathless bloom; 
Now, while the blood slowed, freezing in his veins. 
Some goblin shivered in upon the gloom ! 


Vague visions fill my brain to-night — high deeds 
Round Ilium's shadowy wall ; old Memnon gray 
With vacant gaze looks toward the rising day, 

And breathes with mystic lips of ancient creeds. 

Through Morven's haunted halls my fancy leads, 
And Loda's spirit bends o'er me — far away 
On unblessed shores — ^through cities of Cathay—-* 

By perilous passes where the eaglet feeds. 

Confusing sounds awake— celestial strings, 
The clash of cymbals, tramp of armed bands, 
Songs fugitive from Pelion's height outblown: 

Round Anthemusia's slumberous island sings 
Brave Orpheus to his comrades, of home lands 
Dim-visioned long across the seas unknown. 


At times these walls enchanted fade, it seems. 
And, lost, I wander through the Long Ago— 
In Edens where the lotus still doth grow. 

And many a reedy river seaward gleams. 

Now Pindar's soft-stringed shell blends with my dreams, 
And now the elfin horns of Oberon blow, 
Or flutes Theocritus by the wimpling flow 

Of immemorial amaranth-margined streams. 

Gray Dante leads me down the cloud-built stair. 
And parts with shadowy hands the mists that veil 
Scarred deeps distraught by crying winds forlorn; 

By Milton stayed, chaotic steeps I dare. 
And, with his immaterial presence pale. 
Stand on the heights flushed in creation's mom! 

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Some verses carol blithely as a bird, 
And hint of violet and asphodel; 
While others slowly strike a funeral bell. 

Or call like clarionets till, spirit-stirred. 

We hear the mustering tramp in every word. 
In some, the ocean pounds with sledges fell, 
Or Neptune posts with blare of trumpet-shell 

By shores that visionary seas engird. 

As soft as flutes, they croon the lullabies 

Of cradle-years; play clear as citherns; wail 
Like harps iEolian in the grieving wind; 

Some are the deep-drawn human moan by pale 
And silent faces — 'neath lack-lustre skies — 
Peering through panes on darkness unconfined! 


The songs of bonny birds from many a spray 
Greeted the golden day; 

No fleck of cloud, all the wide heavens through, 
Loitered along the blue. 

But soon a mist, before I was aware. 
Had stolen upon the air, 
Which denser grew till, over hill and plain. 
Drizzled the chilling rain. 

Around my door a monitory wind. 

Like a wolf, snarled and whined; 

And joy seemed, with the radiance of the dawn, 

For evermore withdrawn 

But, ere the night drew down, a lambent zone 
About the west was thrown: 
The sun's full splendors fell across the world, 
As at the morn, impearled. 

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So may the clouds that have concealed the sun 

Lift when life's day is done; — 

So take a glory on their sinking bars 

As night kindles the stars ! 


Upon these dreary bars the ocean rolls, 

Billow on billow and forevermore! 

Age after age, with unremitting roar. 
They curl and break and churn on sands and shoals. 
What means that deep-voiced dolorous monotone? 

Chants it a dirge o'er its unnumbered dead? 

O'er empires that once flourished where its bed 
Now slopes to depths unfathomed and unknown? 
Or, haply, is't a monster's vicious tones, 

Crouching to spring upon its prey, .1 hear — 

Waiting to swallow up earth's mighty thrones. 
And raise new worlds from its own gloomy sphere ? 

Or sobs, perchance, man's kingdoms to efface, 

Only to whelm again some distant race? 


Down where the bed of ocean sinks profound, 
Lodged in the clefts and caverns of the deep. 
Where silence and eternal darkness keep, 

These dumb primordial living forms abound. 

What know they of this life in the vast round 
Of earth and air? — how wild the pulses leap 
At love's sweet dream — ^what storms of sorrow sweep. 

What hopes allure us, and what terrors hound? 

And scattered on these slopes and plains below 
This atmospheric sea, one with the worm 
And beetle, for a momentary term — 

What know we more of those ethereal spheres — 

What rapture may be there, what poignant woe. 

What towering passions, and what high careers? 


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I labor at my desk with aching brain, 

Around me mortgage, bond, and balance-sheet — 
Imprisoned, fettered in this dim retreat 

With shackles galling as a ball and chain. 

Thou singest in thy cage — ^beyond the pane 
A gray sky-glimpse and pavements glazed with sleet — 
Free as thy parent sang in the orchard sweet 

Along the dear old homeward-leading lane. 

Would I might learn of thee, ethereal bird! 
Since thou mayst never fly from hence at will. 
And chant while, charmed, the summer choirs are still; 

Lo, thou hast made thy span of prison here 

A blue-skied world, and hither hast transferred 

The gladness of thy lost ancestral sphere! 


She leads the sea through hills of Darien, 
And brings the east and west to every door, 
With silent influence drawing more and more 

Into close brotherhood the tribes of men. 

She holds the trail of Pain to his secret den; 
The dim process of being dares explore, 
Spells slowly out on mountain, rock, and shore 

The syllables of God to mortal ken. 

She yet may sail from vague, cloud-builded piers, 

And lay along the darkness and the wind 

A cable vast which world to world shall bind : 

Breathless may catch the deep, slow speech of Mars, 
Now, haply, passing on from outer spheres 

The grave, tremendous message of the stars. 

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Brooded on crags, his down the rocks, 
He holds the skies for his domain; 

Serene, he preens where thunder shocks. 
And rides the hurricane. 

The scream of shells is in his shriek; 

His wings as swords, whiz down the air; 
His claws, as bayonets, gride; his beak, 

As shrapnel-shards, doth tear. 

Where Shasta shapes its mighty cone, 
Where Mitchell heaves into the skies. 

Silent he glares, austere, alone, 
With sun-outstaring eyes. 


From slope and field and valley, where 

They watched their flocks at night, 
Roused by the flaming Messenger, 

And pointed to the Light, 
They pressed, the simple shepherd folk. 

By alley, street, and lane, 
Through Bethlehem, little Bethlehem, 

Upon Judea's plain. 

From courts luxuriant as the east, 

Beyond the deserts far. 
Bearing their bales of costly gifts. 

And led by the blazing Star, 
They urged, the graybeard Magians, 

With their resplendent train, 
Toward Bethlehem, lowly Bethlehem, 

Across Judea's plain. 

From mansions builded of the mom. 

In majesty arrayed. 
Their line like to a silver cloud 

Along the darkness laid, 

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They winged, the shining angel hosts, 

Singing that glad refrain, 
For Bethlehem, chosen Bethlehem, 

Adown Judea's plain. 

From every nation, race, and tongue. 

Where frost eternal keeps; 
Where summer islands, crowned with palms, 

Abound in austral deeps. 
They throng, the generations throng 

O'er continent and main, 
To Bethlehem, glorious Bethlehem, 

On far Judea's plain. 

The stars that light the firmament. 

Slowly their beams decay; 
And London town, as Nineveh, 

Was built to pass away: 
But the Star above Judea's hills. 

Its fire shall never wane; 
Nor Bethlehem, hallowed Bethlehem, 

Pass from Judea's plain. 

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DAVID HUNTER STROTHER, the son of Colonel John Stro- 
ther and Elizabeth Pendleton Hunter Strother, was born Sep- 
tember 26, 1816, in Martinsburg, Virginia, now West Virginia. 

Gifted with artistic ability from the outset, he produced, at the 
age of three years, a picture representing the burning of his father's 
house, which occurred at that time, in which the likenesses of the 
onlookers were distinctly recognizable. He received his early edu- 
cation at the Old Stone Schoolhouse in Martinsburg and at Wash- 
ington College (now Washington and Jefferson College),. Canons- 
burg, Pennsylvania. At the age of twelve he was sent to Philadel- 
phia, where he studied art under Professor Morse, later the inventor 
of the electric telegraph. 

In his early manhood he traveled in what was then the Far West, 
and in 1840 went to Europe to complete his art studies, arriving in 
Paris in time to witness the second funeral of Napoleon I. After 
spending a year in this city he went to Italy, returning to the United 
States about 1843. 

For several years Mr. Strother followed his profession, producing 
several paintings of merit and a number of illustrations for the 
books of the day, notably for 'Swallow Barn,' written by his kins- 
man, John Pendleton Kennedy. In 1849 he married Anne Doyne 
Wolff, of Martinsburg, by whom he had one daughter, Emily Stro- 

His taste for literature now asserted itself, and shortly after the 
establishment of Harper's Magazine he began, under the pen-name of 
"Porte Crayon," the contribution to that periodical of a number of 
serial and short articles on American subjects, which continued until 
about 1877. These were all copiously illustrated by his own hand, 
and the happy combination of pen and pencil procured for him a 
national reputation among the writers of his time. 

His principal books were 'Virginia Illustrated,' published in book 
fonn by the Harpers; 'The Blackwater Chronicle'; 'A Summer in 
New England'; 'A Winter In the South'; 'North Carolina Illustrated'; 
The Mountains'; and 'Personal Recollections of the War.' 

His wife died in 1859, ^tnd in 1861 he married Mary Elliot Hunter, 

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of Charles Town, Virginia, now West Virginia, by whom he had two 
sons, David Hunter and John. 

At the beginning of the war Mr. Strother joined the National 
Army with the rank of Captain and was attached to the Topograph- 
ical Corps, for which his knowledge of Eastern theaters of war, ac- 
quired during hunting and pedestrian excursions in his youth, par- 
ticularly fitted him. In this capacity he served in the Patterson 
campaign in the Valley of the Shenandoah, on the staff of General 
McClellan at Ball's Bluff, on that of General Banks in the Valley, 
and on that of General Pope in the second Bull Run campaign. At 
this time he was commissioned Lieutenant-colonel of the Third West 
Virginia Cavalry and later Colonel of the same regiment In the 
autumn of 1862 he was again on McClellan's staff at South Moun- 
tain and Antietam, and later accompanied General Banks to Louisi- 
ana, where he served on the Bayou Tesche and at Port Hudson. Re- 
turning North in 1863, he served under General Kelley as Chief of 
Cavalry, and in 1864 was on the staff of Sigel in the Shenandoah 
Valley and on that of his kinsman. General David Hunter, on the 
Lynchburg raid ; and at the close of the war, having passed through 
thirty-odd battles and skirmishes unwounded, he was mustered out 
with the rank of Brevet Brigadier-general of Volunteers, until 1866 
serving as Adjutant-general of the State of Virginia, then retiring 
to his home at Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, to resume his favo- 
rite occupations of art and literature. 

In 1879 he was appointed by President Hayes Consul-general to 
Mexico, with residence at the capitol, and in this position was in- 
strumental in securing the recognition by the United States of the 
Diaz government, then not long in power. In 1885 he was relieved 
from these duties by President Cleveland, and returned to Charles 
Town, West Virginia, where he resided until his death on March 8, 

To General Strother, as an author, belongs the credit of having 
introduced to the American public, with pen and pencil, the genuine 
Southern Negro. Comparing his sketches with any other representa- 
tions, one soon discovers the original genius which recommended 
Strother over all other artists in his own peculiar field. 

His adventures as a young man, around and about Virginia, are 
well worth preserving, and we shall owe a debt of gratitude to the 
historian who will secure them to us in their original fidelity and 

He lived the greater part of his life at Berkeley Springs, and at 
the Centennial of Berkeley County (1877), at the invitation of the 
Honorable Charles James Faulkner, Sr., General Strother delivered an 
address, in which he pointed out very clearly the two strains of origin 

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that characterize the Valley: that from Pennsylvania and that from 
Virginia. For example, the Strothers and the Hunters, were on one 
side, the Washingtons and the Seldens on the other ; one being Scotch- 
Irish and the other Virginia Cavaliers. They were all equally brave, 
many of them gifted. But it was reserved for General Strother to 
be first to employ his pen in the sketches of Virginia scenery, many 
points of which have now become quite familiar to the traveler 
through the old State. Beginning at Harper's Ferry, and going 
south to the Natural Bridge and the Ozark Mountain, the scenes of 
extraordinary beauty, now well-known, were all celebrated for the 
first time through the pencil of "Porte Crayon.'* 

C>»^— S. 


From 'Virginia Illustrated.* 

Our hero was relieved from hearing further reminiscences 
of his early friend by the approach of an elderly gentleman, 
whose dress and deportment, to the practiced eye, showed him 
to be one of the lords of the soil. 

"Your servant, Sir. Traveling, I presume? Returning 
from the Springs?" 

"I have been making an excursion in the mountains; have 
visited the principal watering-places; and am now homeward 
bound : County, on the banks of the Potomac." 

"A Virginian, Sir, of course? Happy to make your ac- 
quaintance. My name is Hardy, at your service." 

"And mine, Sir, is Crayon." 

"Indeed! bless my soul! I am delighted to hear it. You 
must be a relative of my wife. That was her maiden name. 
Spells it C-r-a-M-^." 

"Our family spell the name C-r-a-y-o-n." 

"All Frenchified nonsense. Your father didn't know how 
to spell, young man. But you must go to my house, and make 
it your home while you remain in this part of the country — 
several weeks of course. Mrs. Hardy will be delighted to see 
you. We are a great people for blood." 

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Crayon intimated that his plans did not admit of his re- 
maining longer than that night ; and, besides, he had a party of 
ladies with him. 

Squire Hardy's countenance brightened. 

"Ladies ! So much the better ; my girls will be delighted to 
see their cousins. Tom, get my buggy immediately;" and the 
squire drove off in hot haste. 

"The old gentleman is gone,'* said Crayon, rather mystified 
by this manoeuvre. 

"Bless your soul, Sir," said the host, with a sad smile, 
"he'll be back directly. He's not going to let you off. This 
is a poor place, Sir, for my business, Sir. There's not much 
travel at best ; and when I do get a genteel customer, I can't 
keep him on account of Squire Hardy and the like of him. He 
only lives two miles from town, keeps a much better tavern 
than I do, and nothing to pay, and good liquor into the bar- 

In a marvelous short time a carriage drove up, and the old 
gentleman, with two bouncing daughters, stepped out The 
ladies were presented; the Squire kissed the girls all around, 
and in an incredibly short space of time, without any par- 
ticular agency of his own, our hero found himself, bag, bag- 
gage, and responsibilities, transferred to the old-fashioned, 
roomy mansion of the Hardys. 

Everybody was delighted. The old lady left off in the 
middle of a cut of yarn she was winding, to welcome her newly 
discovered relative, and Crayon was entertained for two 
hours with the genealogy of the family. It was ascertained 
l^yond a doubt that they were connected, not only on the Cray- 
on side of the house, but likewise on the Hardy side. These 
interesting discoveries were confirmed next morning by a mes- 
sage from an aged domestic, Aunt Winnie, who informed Mr. 
Crayon that she had nursed his father, and insisted on re- 
ceiving a visit from him at her cabin. 

Crayon says his father must have been a remarkable child, 
for he had already heard of some fifty or sixty old women 
who had nursed him. However, Aunt Winnie was a person 
of too much importance on the estate to be slighted, and the 
visit was made in due form next morning. Her little white- 
washed cabin stood at no great distance from the "great house," 

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and was fitted up with due regard to the comfort of the aged 
occupant, not forgetting the ornamental, in the shape of highly- 
colored lithographs and white-fringed curtains. 

"Lord bless us !" said the old woman, "don't tell me dis is 
Mass' Nat's son. Mussy on us! What you got all dat har 
on your face like wild people? Good Lord ! Can't tell who de 
boy looks like on account of dat harT 

Crayon smiled at the old nurse's comments, and having 
made the donation usual on such occasions, turned to depart. 

"Thank'ee, young marster ; Lord bless you. You'se 'mazin' 
good lookin' behind, anyhow." 

Aunt Winnie was supposed to be upward of a hundred 
years old, and could count among her descendants children of 
the fifth generation, one of whom stood at her side when Cray- 
on took a sketch of her. She walked with difficulty, but her 
eyes were bright, and her other faculties apparently complete. 
Her memory was good, and her narratives of the olden time 
replete with interest. One story which she told of revolu- 
tionary times is worth preserving : 

In one of Tarleton's marauding expeditions into the in- 
terior of Virginia, his troops stopped to breakfast at the plan- 
tation of old Major Hardy, the father of the present Squire. 
All those of the household that drew the sword were with the 
armies of their country, but they had by no means carried with 
them all the pluck and patriotism. 

The good lady received her visitors with such spirit that 
it seemed she still considered her house her own, and she still 
appeared to give with haughty hospitality what her unwelcome 
guests would have taken as a matter of course. The officers 
who breakfasted in the house were awed into respect by her 
manner, and her houses and barns were spared a fate that be- 
fell many others. But the passage of such a troop was like a 
visit of the locusts of Egypt. Fodder-stacks had disappeared, 
granaries were emptied, meat-houses rifled, piggery and poul- 
try-yard silent as the grave. The matron contemplated the dev- 
astation with swelling indignation. All gone — all. If they had 
been Washington's troopers she would have gloried in the sac- 
rifice; but to be forced to feed the host of the oppressor — ^to 
give nourishment and strength to those who might soon meet 
her husband and sons in battle — ^that was hard indeed. 

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The negroes had returned from their hiding-places, and 
stood grouped around, with eyes fixed upon their mistress, 
but not daring to break the silence. Presently an old Muscovy 
drake crept out from beneath the corn-house, where he had 
taken refuge during the Reign of Terror. The sight of this 
solitary and now useless patriarch was the feather that broke 
the camel's back. The matron's patience gave way under it. 

"Jack," she screamed, "catch that duck!" 

With the instinct of obedience, Jack pounced upon the 
wheezing waddler. 

"Now mount that mare — ^mount instantly!" 

With countenance of ashy hue, and staring eyes, Jack 
obeyed the order. 

"Now ride after the troopers — ride for your life. Give my 
compliments to Colonel Tarleton — ^mind, to no one else — ^the 
officer on the black horse — ^give him my compliments, and tell 
him your mistress says he forgot to take that duck." 

Away went the messenger at full speed after the retreating 
cohorts. . . . 

"Well, Jack, did you deliver that message?" 

"Sartain, Missus." 

"To Colonel Tarleton himself?" 

"Sartain, Missus." 

"And what did he say?" 

"He put duck in he wallet, and say he much 'bliged." . . . 

The old nurse was not the only character on the estate. 
The Squire himself was the type of a class found only among 
the rural population of our Southern States — a class, the 
individuals of which are connected by a general similarity of 
position and circumstance, but present a field to the student 
of man infinite in variety, rich in originality. 

As the isolated oak that spreads his umbrageous top in 
the meadow surpasses his spindling congener of the forest, so 
does the country gentleman, alone in the midst of his broad 
estate, outgrow the man of crowds and conventionalities in 
our cities. The oak may have the advantage in the compari- 
son, as his locality and consequent superiority are permanent. 
The Squire, out of his own district, we ip^nore. Whether 
intrinsically, or simply in default of comparison, at home he 
is invariably a great man. Such, at least, was Squire Hardy. 

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Sour and cynical in speech, yet overflowing with human kind- 
ness; contemning luxury and expense in dress and equipage, 
but princely in his hospitality; praising the olden time to 
the disparagement of the present; the mortal foe of pro- 
gressionists and fast people in every department; above all, 
a philosopher of his own school, he judged by the law of 
Procrustes, and permitted no appeals; opinionated and ar- 
bitrary as the Czar, he was sauced by his negroes, respected 
and loved by his neighbors, led by the nose by his wife and 
daughters, and the abject slave of his grandchildren. 

His house was as big as a barn, and, as his sons and daugh- 
ters married, they brought their mates home to the old man- 
sion. "It will be time enough for them to hive,*' quoth the 
Squire, "when the old box is full." 

Notwithstanding his contempt for fast men nowadays, he 
is rather pleased with any allusion to his own youthful repu- 
tation in that line, and not unfrequently tells a good story on 
himself. We cannot omit one told by a neighbor, as being 
characteristic of the times and manners forty years ago: 

At Culpepper Court-house, or some court-house there- 
about, Dick Hardy, then a good-humored, gay young bachelor, 
and the prime favorite of both sexes, was called upon to carve 
the pig at the court dinner. The district judge was at the 
table, the lawyers, justices, and everybody else that felt dis- 
posed to dine. At Dick's right elbow sat a militia colonel, who 
was tricked out in all the pomp and circumstance admitted by 
his rank. He had probably been engaged on some court- 
martial, imposing fifty-cent fines on absentees from the last 
general muster. Howbeit Dick, in thrusting his fork into the 
back of the pig, bespattered the officer's regimentals with some 
of the superfluous gravy. "Beg your pardon," said Dick, as 
he went on with his carving. Now these were times when the 
war-spirit was high, and chivalry at a premium. "Beg your 
pardon" might serve as a napkin to wipe the stain from one's 
honor, but did not touch the question of the greased and 
spotted regimentals. 

The colonel, swelling with wrath, seized a spoon, and de- 
liberately dipping it into the gravy, dashed it over Dick's 
prominent shirt-frill. 

All saw the act, and with open eyes and mouth sat in as- 

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tonished silence, waiting to see what would be done next. The 
outraged citizen calmly laid down his knife and fork, and 
looked at his frill, the officer, and the pig, one after another. 
The colonel, unmindful of the pallid countenance and signifi- 
cant glances of the burning eye, leaned back in his chair, with 
arms akimbo, regarding the young farmer with cool disdain. 
A murmur of surprise and indignation arose from the con- 
gregated guests. Dick's face turned red as a turkey-gobler's. 
He deliberately took the pig by the hind legs, and with a sud- 
den whirl brought it down upon the head of the unlucky officer. 
Stunned by the squashing blow, astounded and blinded with 
streams of gravy and wads of stuffing, he attempted to rise, 
but blow after blow from the fat pig fell upon his bewildered 
head. He seized a carving-knife, and attempted to defend him- 
self with blind but ineffectual fury, and at length, with a des- 
perate effort, rose and took to his heels. Dick Hardy, whose 
wrath waxed hotter and hotter, followed, belaboring him un- 
mercifully at every step, around the table, through the hall, and 
into the street, the crowd shouting and applauding. 

We are sorry to learn that among this crowd were law- 
yers, sheriffs, magistrates, and constables; and that even his 
honor the judge, forgetting his dignity and position, shouted 
in a loud voice, "Give it to him, Dick Hardy! There's no law 
in Christendom against basting a man with a roast pig!" 
Dick's weapon failed before his anger ; and when at length the 
battered colonel escaped into the door of a friendly dwelling, 
the victor had nothing in his hands but the hind legs of the 
roaster. He re-entered the dining-room flourishing these over 
his head, and venting his still unappeased wrath in great oaths. 

The company reassembled, and finished their dinner as best 
they might. In reply to a toast, Hardy made a speech, wherein 
he apologized for sacrificing the principal dinner-dish, and, as 
he expressed it, for putting public property to private uses. 
In reply to this speech a treat was ordered. In those good old 
days folks were not so virtuous but that a man might have 
cakes and ale without being damned for it, and it is presumable 
the day wound up with a spree. 

After the Squire got older, and a family grew up around 
him, he was not always victorious in his contests. For example, 
a question lately arose about the refurnishing the house. On 

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their return from a visit to Richmond, the ladies took it into 
their heads that the parlors looked bare and old-fashioned, and 
it was decided by them in secret conclave that a change was 

"What!'* said he, in a towering passion, "isn't it enough 
that you spend your time and money in vinegar to sour sweet 
peaches, and sugar to sweeten crab-apples, that you must turn 
the house you were born in topsy-turvy ? God help us ! we've a 
house with windows to let the light in, and you want curtains 
to keep it out ; we've plastered the walls to make them white, 
and now you want to paste blue paper over them ; we've waxed 
floors to walk on, and we must pay two dollars a yard for a 
carpet to save the oak plank ! Begone with your nonsense, ye 
demented jades !" 

The Squire smote the oak floor with his heavy cane, and 
the rosy petitioners fled from his presence laughing. In due 
time, however, the parlors were furnished with carpets, cur- 
tains, paper, and all the fixtures of modern luxury. The ladies 
were, of course, greatly delighted ; and while professing great 
aversion and contempt for the "tawdry lumber," it was plain 
to see that the worthy man enjoyed their pleasure as much as 
they did the new furniture. 


From 'The Blackwatcr Chronicle* 

Such pure, unalloyed charm of soul as we felt that morn- 
ing, it would be worth any hardship to enjoy. No disturbing 
thought had any place in the mind. It seemed that we had 
entered into a new existence, that was one of some land of 
vision. As for the world we had left, it was as unknown to 
our thoughts as if we had never heard cf it ; it was absolutely 
lapsed from all memory, and nothing but the beauty and the 
bliss of the untrodden Canaan entered into our hearts. 

As for myself — without pretending to speak at all for the 
Master, or the Signor, or the two hunters — I am certain I had 
no idea of having ever been bom of woman — no idea of having 
ever known a passion of mortal joy or sorrow : I was some cre- 
ation of an undiscovered paradise (hitherto undreamed of 

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even) altogether, for these few hours of a new soul. And it 
seems to me now, when I revert my thoughts to that morn- 
ing's exploration of the Blackwater, that all the divinities of old 
fable must have had their dwelling-place out there ; that surely 
Pan and Faunus dwelt in those wilds ; that Diana lived there, 
and Latmos, on whose top she nightly kissed the boy Endy- 
mion, was the mountain that bordered the Blackwater; that 
Venus — ^she of the sea — Anadyomene, sometimes left the sea- 
foam and reposed her charms in the amber flow of the river; 
that Diana, the huntress, with all her attendant nymphs, pur- 
sued those beautiful deer I saw; that the naiads dwelt in the 
streams, and the sylphs lived in the air, and the dryads and 
hamadryads in the woods around ; that Egeria had her grotto 
nowhere else but in the Canaan — ^all the beautiful creations 
of old poesy, the spirits or gods that now 

No longer lived in the faith of reason — 
all were around me in the unknown wild — 

The intelligible forms of ancient poets. 

The fair humanities of old religion, 

The power, the beauty, and the majesty, 

That had their haunts in dale or piny mountains. 

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 

Or chasms and watery depths. 

— Sometimes the fancy has possessed me that I saw Undine 
sitting in all her beauty by the foam of the little Niagara, 
the most beautiful of all the falls. Sometimes, too, I have 
seen Bonny Kilmeney — ^who was 

As pure as pure could be — 

sleeping pn the purple and gold-cushioned rocks, even as the 
Shepherd Poet has so exquisitely created her — ^her bosom 
heaped with flowers, and lovely beings of the spirit world in- 
fusing their thoughts of heaven into her spotless soul — ^her 

Joup of the lily sheen. 
Her bonny snood of the birk sae green. 
And those roses, the fairest that ever were seen. 

All these images, and many more innumerable, of the cre- 
ations of the genius of mankind, are associated in my mind, 


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henceforth and for ever, with the Blackwater; and although 
I am fully aware that in here giving expression to these fan- 
cies, I run some little risk of stamping this historic narrative 
with the character of fiction, yet the judicious reader will 
observe that this chronicle was intended in its inception to be 
an impress of the body and soul of the expedition — ^the mo- 
tions and affections of the mind were to be recorded, as well 
as the motions and affections of the body — ^therefore he will 
see that it is all in keeping with the high aim of our under- 
taking. In accordance, then, with this just view of things, I 
have no hesitation in writing it down here, that the whole 
expedition felt themselves in a paradise all the morning; and 
I will take this occasion to observe in regard to myself especial- 
ly, that I know something of the joys of this world — ^have had 
my reasonable share, and more too, of the joys that comes of 
passion — ^but that perfect bliss of the soul — ^that feeUng of 
entire happiness, which has no taint of our mortal lot in it — 
which is a beatific, such as an angel ever lives in, I never had 
any distinct idea of — ^never anything but a glimmering, vague, 
mystified conjecture of, until I felt the heaven of that morn- 
ing down the exquisite stream. 

The reader no doubt is a little startled at this apparent ex- 
travagance, but let him restrain himself. It is all true, every 
word of it — ^as near as any felicities of the English language 
will convey a meaning; and although he may deem the brain 
of the chronicler of the expedition a little turned (by thunder, 
maybe), yet I call confidently upon Mr. But cut, upon Adol- 
phus, upon the Master of St. Philip's, upon Triptolemus Todd, 
Esq., upon the Signor, and the two hunters, to say if it does 
not but poorly convey to their minds the feelings they experi- 
enced. Why, Mr. Butcut, forgetful of all his sufferings, 
grows enthusiastic when he thinks of the Blackwater, even at 
this day; and Trip chuckles from ear to ear, with a joyous 
ugh — uh! if you but point your finger in the direction of the 
Alleganies ! 

While we have stopped to dilate a little on the heavenly de- 
lights of the Canaan, the exploring expedition did not stop, but 
wound its way down the bed of the stream ; and presently turn- 
ing a rocky promontory that jutted from the mountain-side, the 
Blackwater, some hundred yards ahead, seemed to have disap- 

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peared entirely from the face of the earth, leaving nothing 
visible down the chasm through which it vanished, but the tops 
of fir-trees and hemlocks — ^and there stood on the perilous 
edge of a foaming precipice, on a broad rock high above the 
flood, the Signor Andante (who had gone ahead), demean- 
ing himself like one who had lost his senses, his arms 
stretched out wide before him, and at the top of his voice 
(which couldn't be heard for the roar and tumult aroimd him), 
pouring forth certain extravagant and very excited utterances ; 
all that could be made out of which, as the rest drew close to 
his side, was something or other about 

— ^The cataract of Lodore 
Pealing its orisons. 

and other fragments of sublime madness about cataracts and 
waterfalls, to be found at large in the writings of the higher 

Not stopping at all to benefit by the poetic and otherwise 
inspired outpouring of the wild and apparently maddened 
artist, thus venting himself to the admiring rocks and moun- 
tains and tumbling waters around, the expedition stepped out 
upon the furthest verge and very pinnacle of the foaming bat- 
tlements, and gazed upon the sight, so wondrous and so wild, 
thus presented to their astonished eyes. 

No wonder that the Signor demeaned himself with so wild 
a joy; for 

All of wonderful and wild, 
Had rapture for the artist child; 

and perhaps in all this broad land of ours, whose wonders are 
not yet half revealed, no scene more beautifully grand ever 
broke on the eye of poet or painter, historian or forester. The 
Blackwater here evidently breaks its way sheer down through 
one of the ribs of the backbone of the AUeganies. The chasm 
through which the river forces itself thus headlong tumultuous 
down, is just wide enough to contain the actual breadth of the 
stream. On either side, the mountains rise up, almost a per- 
pendicular ascent, to the height of some six hundred feet. 
They are covered down their sides, to the very edge of the 
river, with the noblest of firs and hemlocks, and as far as the 
eye can see, with the laurel in all its most luxuriant growth — 


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befitting undergrowth to such noble growth of forest, where 
every here and there some more towering and vast Balsam fir, 
shows his grand head, like 

Caractaciis in act to rally his host. 

From the brink of the falls, where we now stand, it is a 
clear pitch of some forty feet. Below, the water is received 
in a large bowl of some fifteen or twenty feet in depth, and 
some sixty or eighty feet across. Beyond this, the stream runs 
narrow for a short distance, bound in by huge masses of rock 
— ^some of them cubes of twenty feet — ^then pitches down an- 
other fall of some thirty feet of shelving descent — ^then on 
down among other great rocks, laying about in every variety 
of shape and size — all the tiftie falling by leaps of more or less 
descent, until it comes to something hke its usual level of run- 
ning before it begins the pitch down the mountain. This level 
of the stream, however, is but 

The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below; 

for it leads you to a second large fall, a clear pitch again of 
some forty feet. From the top of this you look down some two 
hundred feet more of such shelving falls and leaping descent, 
as we have described above, until you come again to another 
short level of the stream. This, in its turn, is the approach to 
another large fall. Here the river makes a clear leap again of 
about some thirty feet, into another deep basin ; and looking 
on before you, you see some two hundred feet or more of like 
shelving falls and rapid rush-down of the stream, as followed 
upon the other large falls. Getting down below all these, the 
river having now tumbled headlong down some six hundred 
feet, more or less, in somewhere about a mile, it makes a bend 
in its course, along the base of the mountain to the left, and 
mingles in amber waters with the darker flow of the Cheat: 
the Cheat some three times the size of the Blackwater; and 
roaring down between mountains (twelve or fifteen hundred 
feet sheer up above us), through, not a valley, but a rocky and 
savage chasm, scarcely wide enough to hold the river. 

It will be perceived from this description, that the falls of 
the Blackwater must be extremely grand, picturesque, and wild 
in their character. A stream of good size, that breaks down 

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through one of the bold Allegany Mountains — 2l fall in the 
whole, of some six hundred feet, must affect the mind grandly. 
If, instead of a beautiful little river of sc«ne fifty feet in 
breadth, running some two or three feet deep in the main, it 
were as large as the Cheat, the predominating sense of the 
beautiful that now belongs to it, would be lost in the terror it 
would inspire. As it is, let the floods get out in the mountains 
— let the snows of winter linger on in the AUeganies into the 
spring; and all at once let the south wind blow, and the sun 
returning higher up this way, pour down his rays; then would 
you behold such a mad rush and tumult of waters, roaring 
down the AUeganies, as would strike such awe into your soul, 
as not even Niagara, in all his diffused vastness, could impress 
you with. But, then, it would be no longer the exquisite Black- 
water, filling the mind with so wondrous and wild a sense of 
beauty, that now makes it a picture, such as no sons of genius, 
who had once hung it up in the galleries of his brain, would 
ever take down. 

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£1856— ] 


MRS. RUTH McENERY STUART was bom in Marksville, 
Louisiana, the daughter of James McEnery and Mary Routh 
Stirling, and is thus representative of that strong type of Scotch- 
Irish stock which has given our country so large a portion of its 
best citizenship. Both sides of her family have been distinguished 
in the history of her native state, ho less than five of her kinsmen 
having been governors of Louisiana; and during the last century 
there has scarcely been a time when the family was not represented 
in Congress. Her father, a cotton commission merchant of the old 
days in New Orleans, was born in Limerick, and belonged to a noble 
family whose estates were confiscated during Cromwell's time. John 
Stirling, her maternal grandfather ("Sir John" by inherent right) 
was a sturdy Scot who, when he left his native heath, and came 
with a colony of his kinsmen to Louisiana, where they invested in 
land and slaves, proudly repudiated the title, declaring it ill-becom- 
ing an American* 

Mrs. Stuart was married in 1879 to Mr. Alfred Oden Stuart, a 
cotton planter of Hempstead County, Arkansas, who died four years 
later, leaving her with one son, Stirling McEnery Stuart, who re- 
cently passed out of life on the threshold of young manhood. After 
her husband's death, Mrs. Stuart returned to New Orleans, but re- 
moved to- New York in 1888, since which time she has divided her 
time between her apartments there and a summer home in the 
literary and artistic colony of Onteora, in the Catskills. She fre- 
quently revisits relatives and friends in her old home State, and 
has made nimierous tours through the country as a "reader," using 
her own works. 

Her career as a writer has gained her a large circle of acquaint- 
ances and many near friendships among other writers of promi- 
nence, her talents winning a high place in their professional esteem. 

On one occasion she served as temporary editor of Harper^s 
Bazar, during the vacation of its regular editor, Margaret Sang- 
ster, the poet, but, although Mrs. Stuart has several times occupied 
editorial chairs by courtesy, in periods of transition, she has never 
desired editorial duties because of their conflicting with creative 

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wort She is identified with the Barnard, MacDowell and Wed- 
nesday Afternoon clubs — all organizations for culture rather than 
for causes — and composed largely of literary and artistic member- 
ship, and their affiliations. Although reared a Presbyterian, Mrs. 
Stuart has been, in maturity, non-sectarian. She is in favor of suf- 
frage for women, although she would have the qualifications of the 
American voter raised somewhat above the present level. 

Although not the first to treat the negro in fiction, Mrs. Stuart 
has perhaps been the first to show him in his home life independ- 
ently of his relations with the white man. Joel Chandler Harris 
wrote Mrs. Stuart some months before his death: "You have got 
nearer the heart of the negro than any of us." While she has not 
painted the negro as a saint or tried to obscure the faults of his 
race, the reader is ever sensible of a sympathetic pen which de- 
picts him at his worst more as a child, with much to learn, than as 
a flagrant despiser of the decalogue; and never for a moment has 
she held him up to ridicule. 

In like manner, she treats the Caucasian type which might be 
designated as the '*hill-billy" — ^the Southern counterpart of the back- 
woods "Yankee" farmer of the "Old Homestead" type, though not 
so keen for trade and husbandry. 

Mrs. Stuart has sometimes been called "a master of dialects," and 
while her readers pass from her stories of the negro and the poor 
whites of the hill-country to the tales dealing with the Latin-Ameri- 
can element of New Orleans (these including not only the descend- 
ants of the French and Spanish of the romantic old city, but the 
considerable Italian contingent, and finally, the concomitant Latin- 
American negro, the last speaking a jargon of commingled French 
and English, modified by the characteristic African carelessness of 
enunciation) they feel that she is sure of her ground, knows her 
people, and is thoroughly familiar with the life and speech which 
she so sympathetically depicts. 

In this rich Southern field Mrs. Stuart discerned a wealth of 
literary material going to waste. Indeed, she says that when she re- 
turns to her native State she always feels the elements of romance 
in the very air, no matter whether her journeyings take her to the 
cane-fields of plantations among the bandana folk, or down in old 
New Orleans among the fields of purple fleur de lis, or beyond to 
the quadroon environs, where speech and manner are doubly typi- 
fied in the low-lying swamp-lands and the "Flower of France." 

Mrs. Stuart began her writings in 1888, and success met her 
work from the start. The principal medium of expression which she 
has so admirably adapted to her purpose is the short story. Recog- 
nizing the laws and limitatons of this literary form, as so clearly 

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laid down by Poe, and having for her object in larger part the study 
of characterization, she has generally subordinated plot and setting 
to persons, mental attitudes, and manners of action and speech as 
revealed in conversation. She has been especially faithful in giv- 
ing lifelike naturalness to the colloquial speech of both black and 
white, taking such care in spelling the phonetic representations of 
the spoken word that even a reader who has never heard an original 
vocal deliverance of the speech represented will obtain a fairly cor- 
rect impression of it — all except the drawl. The drawl of the Ar- 
kansas "hill-billy" cannot be represented on paper; nor can the soft 
musical carelessness of the negro's speech — and for this reason, Mrs. 
Stuart's literary purpose could never have been so fully accom- 
plished without her supplementary work as a "reader," in which she 
has appeared with great success, reading from her own stories with 
a simplicity and naturalness that always charms and delights her 

A somewhat generalized statement of Mrs. Stuart's theme, based 
upon a reading of all her stories, might be simply: Glimpses of 
Southern Life Just After the Civil War, although many of her stud- 
ies of these people reach back into the slave days. The negro-ness 
of it is, therefore, clearly seen as a necessity. Not only was the 
negro brought into portrayal as part of the theme of Southern life, 
but the backwoods country white man of the "In Simpkinsville" type 
was no less conspicuous an element to be represented in the picture 
— and more important. He it was, as with the farmer in all places 
and times, upon whom depended the return to economic independence 
through direct application of labor to land and natural resources. 
The wealthy slave owner of the former time was now in poverty, 
without the experience of labor with his hands. He had brains, cul- 
ture, statesmanship and the heroic will that would in a few years 
assert themselves; and he is in every way an interesting and domi- 
nating figure; but Deuteronomy Jones, the drawling, unlearned, but 
pious, earnest and hard-working backwoods farmer, whose life and 
character are so clearly read in his exquisite monologues about 
Sonny, was, in fact, the type of citizen whose simple life and humble 
labors were to become important factors in the new structure of 
Southern life. Mrs. Stuart makes no effort to outline the industrial 
and economic side of the life of either white or black, contenting 
herself with presenting merely a portrait in each case; but, as in 
the case of a real portrait, the underlying forces show themselves 
in the facial expression. What the man's life stands for may, there^ 
fore, be pretty well inferred from some simple account of his con- 
duct. Mrs. Stuart has shown a great penchant for Christmas stories 
— which means that she found her theme of Southern life quite well 

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adapted to presentation through its holiday Christmas phase. It 
means, besides, her own natural and unconscious optimism through 
which she sees her South suffused with the roseate glow of senti- 
ment and romance. The anti-Christmas, anti-holiday, unchristianlike 
or unhappy side of life finds small expression from Mrs. Stuart's 
pen, for she is everywhere cheerful, looking on the bright side, and 
turning the flow of her drama away from tragedy and toward whole- 
some living, lightened by the play of comedy. Good humor shines 
ever with a mild persistence through all her stories; and elements 
of fun and wit, of the ludicrous and laughable, are quietly and skil- 
fully wrought through almost every situation. As Charles Dudley 
Warner has said of her, "Her pictures of Louisiana life, both white 
and colored, are among the best we have — ^truthful, humorous and 
not seldom pathetic, but never overdrawn or sentimental"; and Eu- 
gene Field's comment upon the same point was that they are "re- 
markable for their humanity, naturalness and tenderness and the 
delicacy and persuasiveness of their humor." Indeed, contemporary 
critics of Mrs. Stuart's work have invariably accredited her with 
large human sympathy, broad sanity, keen and delicate humor, and 
intellectual poise. Almost any of her better-known stories will justify 
these favorable opinions. Perhaps our author's best and most popu- 
lar story is * Sonny,' the inimitable series of seven monologues by 
Deuteronomy Jones, the backwoods Arkansas farmer. Each chapter 
is an artistic whole in itself, and the seven together form a con- 
summate group of the seven ages of Sonny. The first, "A Christmas 
Guest,'' is a touching and humorous account of his birth, on a moon- 
lit Christmas night — an event in honor of which all the "critters" on 
the place had to have "an extry feed." But here again we feel the 
underlying reverence of the writer in her treatment of "the holy 
mystery of human birth, which comes ever near that greater mjrstery 
of which all Christmas days are memorials." These words are her 

"The Boy" is the title of the second chapter, which affords a 
glimpse of Sonny's disposition at the age of two, when he would 
demand whatever he wanted, and if it "wasn't fo'thcomin' tmm^- 
jaie, why he thess stiffened out in a spell" and wouldn't "come 
th'ough" till he got it. The third is "Sonny's Christenin'," describ- 
ing the amusingly absurd situation of the Episcopal rector standing 
on the front porch and administering the rite of baptism to Sonny 
perched high in the top of the bean arbor out in the yard and stub- 
bornly refusing to come down — ^an early instance of wireless ser- 

"Sonny's Schoolin' " and "Sonny's Diploma," the next two chap- 
ters, are probably unsurpassed for their simple and homely but 

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lively and irresistible humor, as they sketch Sonny's career in the 
three different schools he attended, going from one to the other at 
his own caprice, while kept on the rolls of all three — a plan that 
to quote verbatim, was "toler'ble expensive, lookin' at it one way, 
but lookin' at it another, it don't cost no mo' 'n what it would to ed- 
j create three children, which many po' families have to do — an' mo' 
— ^which in our united mind Sonny's worth *em all." 

"Sonny's Keepin' Company" continues to hold our tmflagging in- 
terest in all of Sonny's doings, and "Weddin' Presents" fittingly 
closes the story at the happy epoch — ^where Sonny has every pros- 
pect of "living happily ever afterwards," and where the dear old 
doting father is "askin' no mo"n thess to pass on whenever the 
good Lord wills." "But, of co'se," he adds, "I ain't in no hurry, 
an' they's one joy I'd like to feel befo' that time comes. I'd love to 
hoi' Sonny's baby in my ol' arms an' to see thet the good ol* name 
o' Jones has had safe transportation into one mo' generation of 
honest folks." The closing sentence of the book is so characteristic 
of both writer and her mellow old hero. Sonny's father, that one 
cannot forbear giving it here : 

"An' when I imagine myself a-settin' there with one little one a- 
climbin' over me while the rest swings away, why, seem like a per- 
son don't no mo' 'n realize he's a descendant befo' he's a' ancestor." 

One of the best of the "studies in color" is Napoleon Jackson, 
the Gentleman of the Plush Rocker.' Its opening sentence — "The 
picture of the family group of Rose Ann, washerwoman, as gath- 
ered almost any day at her cabin door, was a pictorial expression 
of the great story of her life — its romance, its tragedy, and, for- 
tunately for all concerned, its comedy" — is an admirable first sen- 
tence, epitomizing not only the character of the story about to be 
unfolded, but also the larger story it represents — ^the story of the 
simple, careless, happy, workful-playful life of the negro cabin of 
the period following the Civil War. The story turns upon the 
humorously exaggerated idleness of Rose Ann's husband. Napoleon 
Jackson, who, in striking contrast with the industrious hard-work- 
ing Rose Ann, does nothing but loll and doze in a comfortable red- 
plush-lined Morris chair which Rose Ann had acquired as a premium 
for sixty soap coupons, saved up especially for this purpose. Though 
only fifty of the "soap-papers" were enough to entitle her to a sew- 
ing-machine. Rose Ann persevered and fainted not till the goal of 
the luxurious chair was won. "Yas, an' 'Poleon sho was proud an' 
happy when he see me pass de sewin-machine notch an' save up to 
de rocker. He sho was!" The story imrolls a moving picture of 
washtub scenes with piccaninnies around, negro laughter, talk, play, 
singing, dancing, working, shirking, idleness and superstitious fear 

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of "sperrits,'' and closes with a dramatic and humorous mock-trial 
of Napoleon Jackson for "vagrancy," in which Rose Ann's stout 
defence of her husband, pleading that she had married "for love 
an' not for labor," proved a winning argument And the evidence 
of old "Granny Shoshone" is equally convincing, for when asked 
how long she had known the prisoner, she said: "I been knowed 
him sence his mammy was a baby. An' fust an' fo'most," she 
continued, "I know Toleon don't work beca'se he can't he'p hisse'f. 
He can't work. His mammy — ^why, you-all chillen, you 'member his 
mammy, ole 'Hoodoo Jane !' She was a hard worker, an' when she 
labored so hard for her las' marster, Eben Dowds, Jedge Mo'house's 
Yankee overseer wha* bought him out, she was so overdriv dat she 
swo' dat de chile dat was gwine come to her th'ough all dat endurin' 
labor shouldn't nuver lay a han' to a plow. She marked him for rest. 
She say she sho was gwine to leave one rockin'-cheer nigger to take 
her place when she died, an' she done it. An' I'm her witness to-day 
befo' Gord. An' 'Poleon's daddy, he nuver worked. He was ole 
man Dzugloo. He was a Af'ican Prince, so he say. Well, Napo- 
leon heah he's ole Dzugloo's chile on his daddy's side, an' Hoodoo 
Jane's on his mammy's side, an' he ain't got no workin' blood in 
him." Following these two stories in excellence and popularity, in 
a somewhat doubtful order of precedence, are *A Golden Wed- 
ding,' 'In Simpkinsville,' 'Moriah's Mourning,' The Woman's 
Exchange,' 'The Story of Babette,' 'Camelia Riccardo,' *Car- 
lotta's Intended,' and The River's Children.' In the three last 
named is illustrated the author's facility with the Latin-American 
dialects, which is perhaps quite equal to her technique in the Ar- 
kansas and African modes of this "illiterature." There is one little 
touch in dialect which we believe Mrs. Stuart alone has given, and 
that is the verisimilitude of emphasis to be obtained at times by 
italicizing the preposition to, as in the words of Miss Sophia Falena 
Simpkins: "Tell the truth. Sis, what to do I don't know." Another 
instance is when Bud Zunts said: "He knowed there wasn't but one 
person I'd keer to git a love-letter from." This is a common em- 
phasis of this word in unlettered speech, but is only rarely repre- 
sented in print. 

' The Unlived Life of Little Mary Ellen' has been adjudged by 
some able critics as Mrs. Stuart's best story, though it is by no means 
the most representative, being wholly unusual, and containing tragic 
elements. It is the story of an exceptional psychologic situation 
arising from the hallucination of a young woman deserted at the 
altar; being impressed with the idea that she was duly married, she 
in due time imagines herself a mother — a large doll taking the place, 
to her disordered mind, of a living child, upon which she lavishes a 

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mother's affection. It is treated with all tenderness, reverence and 
pathos, and although the writer even dares to introduce or rather 
acknowledge the comedy which irresistibly plays with so bleak a 
tragedy, she carries the story to its pathetic conclusion with masterly 


A Golden Wedding and Other Tales. Harpers, 1893. 

Carlotta's Intended and Other Stories. Harpers, 1894, 

The Story of Babette. Harpers, 1894. 

Sonny. Century Company, 1894. 

Solomon Crow's Christmas Pockets, and Other Talcs. Harpers, 

In Simpkinsville. Harpers, 1897. 

Moriah's Mourning, and Other Half-Hour Sketches. Harpers, 

The Second Wooing of Salina Sue, and Other Stories. Har- 
pers, 1898. 

Holly and Pizen, and Other Stories. Century Company, 1898. 

Napoleon Jackson, the Gentleman of the Plush Rocker. Cen- 
tury Company, 1901. 

The River's Children, An Idyl of the Mississippi. Century Com- 
pany, 1903. 

Aunt Amity's Silver Wedding, and Other Tales. Century Com- 
pany, 1909. 

Among other stories and poems not included in the volumes 
named above may be noted: 

Stars and Dimples, a poem; "Jes Her Way"; and Tiger-lilies. 
Harper^s Magasine. 

Beauty-land, Wash-Day, Misfit Christmas, Petty Larceny, and 
Wealth and Riches. Century Magasine. 

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Sketches of Mrs. Stuart, with portrait, may be found in The 
Reader, February 1905; in The Bookman, February 1904; Ladie^ 
Home Journal, March 1904; Harper's Bazar, December 16, 1899; 
also in The Southern Woman in New York.' 


(a monologue) 

Copyrigfat, 1894, 1896* The Centair Company, and used here by perminion of the 
anther and the publithera. 

A BOY, you say, doctor? An' she don't know it yet? 
Then what Ve you telHn' me for? No, sir — take it away. I 
don't want to lay my eyes on it till she's saw it — not if I am 
its father. She's its mother, I reckon! 

Better lay it down somew'eres, an' go to her — not there 
on the rockin'-cheer, for somebody to set on — 'n' not on the 
trunk, please. That ain't none o' yo' ord'nary new-bom 
bundles, to be dumped on a box that 'II maybe be c^ned sud- 
den d'rec'ly for somethin* needed, an' be dropped ag'in' the 
wall-paper behind it. 

It's hers, whether she knows it or not. Dor^'t, for gracious 
sakes, lay 'im on the table! Anybody knows that's bad luck. 

You think it might bother her on the bed? She's that 
bad? An' they ain't no fire kindled in the settin'-room, to 
lay it in there. 

S'i^r Well, yas, I— I reck'n I'll haf to hold it, ef you 
say SCH— that is — of co'se — 

Wait, doctor! Don't let go of it yet! Lordy! but I 'm 
thess shore to drop it ! Lemme set down first, doctor, here by 
the fire an' git het th'ugh. Not yet ! My ol' shin-bones stan' 
up thess like a pair o' dog-irons. Lemme bridge 'em over 
first 'th somethin' soft. That'll do. She patched that quilt 
herself. Hold on a minute, 'tel I git the aidges of it under 
my ol' boots, to keep it f'om saggin' down in the middle. 

There, now ! Merciful goodness, but I never 1 I'd rather 
tras' myself with a whole playin' fountain in blowed glass 'n 
sech ez this. 

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Stoop down there, doctor, please, sir, an* shove the end 
o' this quilt a leetle further under my foot, won't you? Ef 
it was to let up sudden, I would n't have no more lap 'n what 
any other fool man *s got. 

'N' now — ^you go to her, 

I 'd feel a heap safeter ef this quilt was nailed to the flo* 
on each side o' my legs. They 're trimblin' so I dunno what 
minute my feet '11 let go their holt. 

An' she don't know it yet ! An' he layin' here, dressed up 
in all the little clo'es she sewed ! She mus' be purty bad. I 
dunno, though ; maybe that 's gen'ally the way. 

They 're keepin' mighty still in that room. Blessed ef I 
don't begin to feel 'is warmth in my ol' knee-bones ! An' he's 
a-breathin' thess ez reg'lar ez that clock, on'y quicker. Lordy ! 
An' she don't know it yet! An' he a boy! He taken that 
after the Joneses; we 've all been boys in our male branch. 
When that name strikes, seem like it comes to stay. Now 
for a girl — 

Wonder if he ain't covered up mos' too close-t. Seems 
like he snuffles purty loud — for a beginner. 

Doctor! oh, doctor! I say, doctor! 

Strange he don't hear — 'n' I don't like to holler no louder. 
Wonder ef she could be worse? Ef I could thess reach some- 
thin' to knock with! I dares n't lif my foot, less'n the whole 
business 'd fall through. 

Oh, doc' ! Here he comes now — Doctor, I say, don't you 
think maybe he's covered up too — 

How 's she, doctor? "Thess the same," you say? 'n' 
she don't know yet — about him? "In a couple o' hours," 
you say? Well, don't lemme keep you, doctor. But, tell me, 
don't you think maybe he's covered up a leetle too close-t? 

That 's better. An' now I 've saw him befo' she did! 
An' I did n't want to, neither. 

Poor leetle, teenchy, weenchy bit of a thing! Ef he ain't 
the very littlest! Lordy, Lordy, Lordy/ But I s'pose all thet 
's needed in a baby is a startin'-p'int big enough to hoi' the 
fam'ly ch'rorteristics. I s'pose maybe he is, but the po' little 
thing mus' feel sort o' scrouged with 'em, ef he 's got 'em all 
— ^the Joneses' an' the Simses'. Seem to me he favors her a 
little thess aroun' the mouth. 

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An' she don't know it yet ! 

Lord ! But my legs ache like ez if they was bein' wrenched 
off. I 've got 'em on scch a strain, somehow. An' he on'y a 
half hour ol', an' two hours mo' 'f o' I can budge I Lord, Lord ! 
how will I stand it I 

God bless 'imL Doc! He 's a-sneezin'l Come quick! 
Shore ez I 'm here, he snez twice-t! 

Don't you reckon you better pile some mo' wood on 
the fire an' — 

What 's that you say? "Fetch 'im along"? An' has 
she ast for 'im? Bless the Lord ! I say. But a couple of you 
'11 have to come help me loosen up 'fo' I can stir, doctor. 

Here, you stan' on that side the quilt, whiles I stir my 
foot to the flo' where it won't slip— an' Dicey — ^where 's that 
nigger Dicey? You Dicey, come on here, an' tromp on the 
other side o' this bedquilt till I h'ist yo' young marster up on 
to my shoulder. 

No, you don't take 'im neither. I '11 tote 'im myself. 

Now, go fetch a piller till I lay 'im on it. That 's it. 
And now git me somethin' stiff to lay the piller on. There ! 
That lapboa'd '11 do. Why did n't I think about that befo'? 
It 's a heap safeter 'n my ole knee-j'ints. Now, I Ve got 'im 
secure. Wait, doctor — ^hold on! I 'm afeerd you '11 haf to 
ca'y 'im in to her, after all. I '11 cry ef I do it. I 'm trimblin' 
like ez ef I had a' ager, thess a-startin' in with 'im — ^an' seein' 
me give way might make her nervous. You take 'im to her, 
and lemme come in sort o' unconcerned terreckly, after she an' 
him 've kind o' got acquainted. Dast you hold 'im that-a-way, 
doctor, 'thout no support to 'is spinal colume? I s'pose he is 
too sof to snap, but I would n't resk it. Reckon I can slip 
in the other do* where she won't see me, an' view the meetin'. 

Yas; I 'm right here, honey! (The idea o' her a-callin' 
for me — an' him in 'er arms!) I 'm right here, honey — 
mother! Don't min' me a-cryin'! I 'm all broke up, some- 
how ; but don't you fret. I 'm right here by yo* side on my 
knees, in pure thankfulness. 

Bless His name, I say! You know he 's a boy, don't ycr? 
I been a holdin' 'im all day — 't least ever sence they dressed 
'im, purty nigh a' hour ago. An' he 's slep' — ^an' waked up— 
an' yawned — an' snez — an' wunk — an' sniffed — 'thout me say- 

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in' a word. Opened an' shet his little fist, once-t, like ez ef 
he craved to shake hands, howdy ! He cert'n'y does perform 
'is functions wonderful. 

Yas, doctor ; I 'm a-comin', right now. 

Go to sleep now, honey, you an' him, an' I 'U be right on 
the spot when needed. Lemme whisper to her thess a minute, 

I thess want to tell you, honey, thet you never, even in 
yo' young days, looked ez purty to my eyes ez what you do 
right now. An' that boy is yo^ boy, an' I ain't a-goin' to lay 
no mo' claim to 'im 'n to see thet you have yo' way with 'im — 
you hear? An' now good night, honey, an' go to sleep. 

They was n't nothin' lef for me to do but to come out 
here in this ol' woodshed where nobody would n't see me ac' 
like a plumb baby. 

An' now, seem like I can't git over it! The idee o' me, 
fifty year ol', actin' like this ! 

An' she knows it! An' she 's got 'im — a boy — layin' in 
the bed 'longside 'er. 

"Mother an' child doin' well!" Lord, Lord! How often 
I 've heerd that said! But it never give me the all-overs 
like it does now, some way. 

Guess I '11 gether up a* armful o' wood, an' try to act 
unconcerned — ^an' laws-a-mercy me ! Ef — ^to-day — ain't — 
been — Christmas I My ! my ! my ! An' it come an' gone bef o' 
I remembered ! 

I '11 haf to lay this wood down ag'in an' think. 

I 've had many a welcome Christmas gif in my life, but 
the idee o' the good Lord a-timin' this like that ! 

Christmas ! An' a boy ! An' she doin' well ! 

No wonder that ol' turkey-gobbler sets up on them rafters 
blinkin' at me so peaceful! He knows he 's done passed a 
critical time o' life. 

You 've done crossed another bridge safe-t, ol' gobbly, 
an' you can afford to blink — an' to set out in the clair moon- 
light, 'stid o' roostin' back in the shadders, same ez you been 

You was to 've died by ax-ident las' night, but the new 

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visitor thet 's dropped in on us ain't cut 'is turkey teeth yet, 
an' his mother — 

Lord, how that name sounds I Mother ! I hardly know 'er 
by it, long ez I been tryin' to fit it to 'er — an* fearin' to, too, 
less'n somethin' might go wrong with either one. 

I even been callin* him "it" to myself all along, so 'feerd 
thet ef I set my min' on either the "he" or the "she" the other 
one might take a notion to come — an' I did n't want any dis- 
appointment mixed in with the arrival. 

But now he 's come — an' registered, ez they say at the 
polls — ^I know I sort o' counted on the boy, some way. 

Lordy! but he 's little! Ef he had n't 'a' showed up so 
many of his functions spontaneous, I 'd be oneasy less'n he 
might n't have 'em ; but they 're there ! Bless goodness, they 
're there! 

An' he snez presac'ly, for all the world, like my po' ol' 
pap — ^a reg'lar little cat sneeze, thess like all the Joneses. 

Well, Mr. Turkey, befo' I go back into the house, I 'm 
a-goin' to make you a solemn promise. 

You go free till about this time next year, anyhow. You 
an' me '11 celebrate the birthday between ourselves with that 
contrac'. You need n't git oneasy Thanksgivin', or picnic- 
time, or Easter, or no other time 'twixt this an' nex' Christ- 
mas — less'n, of co'se, you stray off an' git stole. 

An' this here reprieve, I want you to understand, is a 
present from the junior member of this firm. 

Lord! but I 'm that tickled! This here wood ain't much 
needed in the house — the wood-boxes 're all full — ^but I can't 
devise no other excuse for vacatin'- — thess at this time. 

S'pose I might gether up some eggs out 'n the nestes, but 
it 'd look sort o' flighty to go egg-huntin' here at midnight — 
an' he not two hours ol'. 

I dunno, either, come to think; she might need a new- 
laid egg — sof ' b'iled. Reckon I '11 take a couple in my hands — 
an' one or two sticks o' wood — ^an' I '11 draw a bucket o' water 
too— an' tote that in. 

Goodness! but this back yard is bright ez day! Goin' to 
be a clair, cool night — ^moon out, full an' white. Ef this ain't 
tht stillest stillness! 

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Thess sech a night, for all the world, I reckon, ez the 
first Christmas, when He come — 

When shepherds watched their flocks by night. 

All seated on the ground, 
The angel o* the Lord come down. 

An' glory shone around — 

thess like the hymn says. 

The whole o' this back yard is full o' glory this minute. 
Th' ain't nothin' too low down an' mean for it to shine on, 
neither — not even the well-pump or the cattle-trough — 'r the 
pig-pen — or even me. 

Thess look at me, covered over with it ! An' how it does 
shine on the roof o' the house where they lay — her an' him ! 

I suppose that roof has shined that-a-way frosty nights 
'fo' to-night ; but some way I never seemed to see it. 

Don't reckon the creakin' o* this windlass could disturb 
her — or him. 

Reckon I might go turn a little mo' cotton-seed in the 
troughs for them cows — an' put some extry oats out for the 
mules an' the doctor's mare — an' onchain Rover, an' let 'im 
stretch 'is legs a little. I 'd like everything on the place to 
know he's come, an' to feel the diff'ence. 

Well, now I '11 load up — ^an' I do hope nobody won't 
notice the r^dic'lousness of it. 

You say she 's asleep, doctor, an' th' ain't nothin' mo' 
needed to be did — an' yo' 're goin'l 

Don't, for gracious sakesi go, doctor, an' leave me I I 
won't know what on top o' the round earth to do, ef— ef — 
You know she — ^she might wake up— or he! 

You say Dicey she knows. But she 's on'y a nigger, doc- 
tor. Yes ; I know she 's had exper'ence with the common run 
o' babies, but — 

Lemme go a* set down this bucket, an' lay this stick o' 
wood on the fire, an' put these eggs down, so 's I can talk to 
you free-handed. 

Step here to the do*, doctor. I say, doc, ef it 's a question 
o' the size o' yo' bill, you can make it out to suit yo'self— or, 
I'll tell you what I '11 do. You stay right along here a day 

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or so — ^tell to-morrer or ncx' day, anyhow — ^an' I '11 sen' 
you a whole bale o' cotton — an' you can sen* back any change 
you see fit — or none — or none, I say. Or, ef you 'd ruther 
take it out in pertaters an' com an' sorghum, thess say so, an' 
how much of each. 

But tvhatr "It would n't be right? Th' ain't no use," 
you say? An' you '11 shore come back to-morrer? Well. 
But, by the way, doctor, did you know to-day was Christmas ? 
Of co'se I might 've knew you did — but / never. An' now it 
seems to me like Christmas, an' Fo'th o' July, an' "Hail 
Columbia, happy Ian'," all b'iled down into one big jubilee! 

But tell me, doctor, confidential — sh! — step here a leetle 
further back — tell me, don't you think he *s to say a leetle bit 
undersized? Speak out, ef he is. 

Wh — how 'd you say? "Mejum," eh? Thess mejum! 
An' they do come even littler yet ? An' you say mejum babies 
're thess ez liable to turn out likely an* strong ez over-sizes, 
eh? Mh-hm! Well, I reckon you know — ^an' maybe the less 
they have to contend with at the start the better. 

Oh, thanky, doctor! Don't be afeerd o' wrenchin' my 
wris'I A thousand thankies! Yo' word for it, he 's a fine 
boy! All' you 've inspected a good many, an' of co'se you 
know — ^yas, yas! Shake ez hard ez you like — ^up an' down — 
up an' down ! 

An' now I '11 go git yo' horse — an' don't ride 'er too hard 
to-night, 'cause I 've put a double po'tion of oats in her trough 
awhile ago. The junior member he give instructions that 
everything on the place was to have a' extry feed to-night — 
an' of co'se I went and obeyed orders. 

Now — 'fo' you start, doctor — I ain't got a thing stronger 
'n raspberry corjal in the house — ^biit ef you'll drink a glass 
o' that with me? (Of co'se he will!) 

She made this 'erself, doctor — picked the berries an' all — 
an* I raised the little sugar thet 's in it. Well, good-night, 
doctor! To-morrer, shore! 


How that do'-latch does click! Thess like thunder! 
Sh-h! Dicey, you go draw yo' pallet close-t outside the 
do', an' lay down — an' I '11 set here by the fire an' keep watch. 

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How my ol' stockin'-feet do tromp! Do lemme hurry an' 
set down I Seem like this room 's awful rackety, the fire a-pop- 
pin' an' tumblin', an'